The Poetry Marathon

When I’m bored.

I look into the void…

or voids.

What peers back

are 4 eyes

of pure curiosity,

of unconditional love

and…

a maniacal madness.

2 jade eyes

flicker back at me.

2 coal embers

appear from another void.

Both look at each other,

4 small triangles twitch to

unheard sounds.

Did they hear my

silent plea…

for entertainment?

“Hey, kiddos.”

Bottle green eyes

kid tilts his head to the left,

his partner in crime

tilts his head in the opposite direction.

“Meow.”

“Meeeeeoooow!”

At last all they wanted was food.

Did you know

that the Earth can bleed too?

Did you know

just like us

the Earth can cries?

It cries like a mother

loosing her child in

a crowded event.

It bleeds

in a way you can’t tell.

When we dig for riches

that cause greed

and blood is spilled.

Those forgotten souls

with noting but

pain

comes back

to scream in the wind.

All this,

is a message.

That the Earth

is more than

money.

23 fires.

23 birds of flames

23 dragons let loose.

Each blazing a path

as they devour everything

and leave a scorched trail.

People chased from homes

to take refuge in a nearby towns.

“Is this Hell?”

“AZ in Hell.”

These words were spelled to truth.

Now prayers are being said

to bring water.

We pray for rain in a time of drought

to quench the forest’s thirst.

As it does,

in small amounts

like someone accidently

tied a knot in the sky’s hose.

It came down

as it teased us,

like an older brother that

pretends to throw her sister in the water.

We cry,” where’s the rain!”

Finally our cries were heard.

A shower from Heaven came down,

as is God held back

all the rain

in a plant a waterer.

Every day she smiles

with a cup of decaf

“Yá’át’ééh abíní.” (Good morning)

She’ll talk about the days

of black and white photos

when polaroid pictures were still new.

For her in those days,

the smiles came by a dozen.

She would switch to

family issues:

of sickness and

deaths from covid or natural.

Her amber eyes droop to her mug

as her wrinkled hands tighten.

She thinks I don’t listen to her.

But her voice is

shaking with each word.

She continues

and forces a smile

“I love you che’e(daughter)”

She waits.

“I love you to mom”

Her smile turns genuine.

Her shoulders drop slightly,

her grip loosens on the cup.

“God loves you too.”

I nod.

She doesn’t think I listen.

Her words at times

sting like a wasp

as she leaves an awkward silence.

Her hair is loose

and falls about her oval tanned face,

with strands of silver and grey.

She’s still holding her decaf coffee,

Her gaze is unfazed

as she looks into my eyes

searching and waiting for something.

As if waking up, her creamed coffee eyes

light up, “My coffee, I better drink it.”

She turns to leave,

and her footsteps echoes

love you.

How many years

has it been since

we heard,

“Kill the Indian, save the soul”?

It’s been repeating

like a scratched cd.

Like that CD it skips

to the next song

“The only good Indian is a dead Indain.”

These songs ring through time

as they crush the dreams of many.

These songs snatch the hearts

from parents chests.

With arms that reach

to the tears of the legacies

that are carried away

By men dressed in Navy Blue

and silver buttons down the chest.

No song is heard as an iron thing spews

Columns of smoke and

Takes the heart of the future away with them.

Their culture now shunned by rulers

and whips, with strict rules

that cut their pride and erase their love

of Nature.

To relapse to what must be remembered

is to be reunited with Mother Earth.

It was the celebration of

Summer,

The Strawberry Moon.

A full moon to bring in the

innocence gone wild

and to call in

the dances of the animals from

their slumber of restlessness.

Instead, the sky was screened in

a translucent cloth of

smoke,

making the

Moon red.

Cries soared the air as

homes dissipated to ashes,

covering the nearby towns.

Plumes of all shapes rose,

wanting to escape

the heat of an angry bird

that once was called legend.

The fire flew to one town

then

to a forest

eating what was not offered.

Ashes mimicked flakes of snow

dancing, floating in the wind,

instead of melting,

it was a crude reminder:

The Phoenix lives

when we make mistakes

to not care for Mother.

A reminder that it will turn

the moon red

with our guilt.

She prays in bed

as she is wrapped

in a blanket late at night

waiting for God to lull her to sleep.

My mom prays

as she greets dawn,

rising to get ready for the day,

thanking Him for being alive

and to be able

to see her kids again.

My mom whispers words

of appreciation

before she breaks bread,

before she takes a sip of tea.

She tells Him,

she is grateful for having food.

She’ll take our hands

and close her eyes.

She’ll start to pray

asking the Lord to watch over us,

to take care of us

and once again

thanking Him for letting us have jobs.

My Mom will always pray.