The Poetry Marathon

A Self Portrait

After Adam Zagajewski – The frame I used is from his poem, and I have put them in italics.

Between my cell phone, the kitchen, and my love seat
half my day passes. It is well past half a century.
I live in a land where Arabic is the language of
music and the streets.
I listen to the language’s songs, even though
I only catch an occasional meaning in the volley around me.
I see two sides battling for my inner life.
I read stories about faith and hope and life and love and I am nurtured.
I like to write poems and letters and blog posts that no one reads.
Beside me is my partner, faithful and true.
I’m no longer able to make my mark here, but I have passed the torch
and I am content and at peace.
I like a listening ear
and spicy milk tea.
Sometimes at the sea, the miniscule waves speak to me and I am comforted.
I love working with children as they learn, create, and find their voices.
Every Friday I eat baked salmon and have a day of rest.
I am not unaware of my privilege.

I’m truly not a child of the moon,
of which Mick Jagger sang,
but a child of the Son,
and not all the plans God has for me
are met in this life that—so far—
still belongs to me.

My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don’t know.
~Adam Zagajewski

Just Be Still, and Listen…

Come, sit here with me awhile.
No need to speak, little one.
No rush. Listen to the hush.
I have stories true to tell.

He read the whole plan in a book

He intended to ease himself into the water at midnight

No one would know or blame themselves

They would spend time looking

but the plan was perfection

marked with science,

enzymes and bacteria

He loved readying the arrangements

His body would never be found

It worked perfectly for the antagonist,

and he’d been planning it for weeks,

There were no missing links from the

author’s description

of this painless goodbye.

He had always assumed he was safer with his books,

But that night, they were waiting for him on the bridge,

And he finally realized it wasn’t true that books

are safer than people.

He let them carry him home.

“Books were safer than other people anyway.”  – Neil Gaiman

Glug, glug, glug

the water fills the mug.

Swoosh, splash, plop,

hubby pours it in the top.

Hum, rattle against the metal.

boils the soon-to-be tea in the kettle.

Gurgle, bubble, ease, 

Poured gently over the leaves.

“Tea, my queen?”

he says with a bow and caffeine

Yes

Yes, is such a hope-filled word

I wish I had said Yes to Brant

when he was tangled in

the emotions of being an

8-year-old from a broken family.

Yes, to being the kind of teacher

that gave him permission to be

“naughty” (whatever that means)

Yes, to a memory of him not

shaking his head no.

I remember
Blossom who kept me company when Dad was angry
she sang “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” lazily and merrily
and tried not to be scared, so I could be brave

I remember
taking Blossom with me to kindergarten that first day
when I had to leave my twin baby brothers
wondering if anyone would remember to give them bottles

I remember
when Blossom refused to raise her hand for the bathroom
so she wet her pants and I covered for her
embarrassed for a moment that I had a friend like her

I remember
when a new girl at school wet her pants
I asked her if she wanted to play at recess
I think that was Blossom’s last day

The Dictionary.com word of the day for Saturday is paucity.

Paucity
When something is lacking or
needing more
when there is only a bit
of any particular thing
a deficit of dimes for the coin collector,
a scarcity of snakes for the snake lover,
a shortage of shoes for your tired feet
a dearth of earths for the whole wide world–
then we can say there is a paucity of that thing.

Learn more about definito poems here by Heidi Mordhorst.

Rainbow-rimmed orange

Slice painted on the cloudy

canvas, full of hope

I read about a call for poems about World Food Day with inspiring, forward-looking messages against hunger. You can read more about it on Laura Shoven’s blog if you are interested. I’m drafting a poem here for the Poetry Marathon.

Quivering, savage, ravaging pain
Intolerable, mean, and fierce
Hunger hollowing inside–
But a just full world can
drive off hunger’s pangs
Honest eating
to recharge.
Aching
halts

so much depends upon
the rock pile skyscraper
against the
periwinkle sky
spread with
streaks of sourdough
cloud formations
and a sunrise of good hope

First line taken from William Carlos Williams ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’. Prompt – Use at least five of these words/phrases:  Forest Ranger, Skyscaper, Periwinkle, sourdough, Cloud, needle, gumboots, beat, spread, storefront)