The Poetry Marathon

Spaghetti reminds me of simple

times. It is love and fellowship,

conversations and laughter.

Sweet sauce contrasted with

savory meat makes my

mouth water. Feels

like home and

comfort

here.

You could barely tell that the periwinkle blue sky was dotted with clouds as the sun started to rise when the Forest Ranger stepped his gumboots past the storefront of Cottage Teas.

This wasn’t his normal beat, yet the aroma of baking sourdough lured him here this early morning. He had never noticed this store before. He didn’t usually frequent this part of town at all, and certainly not at this hour. In fact, he tried to avoid coming into town altogether.

As he entered, several small round tables spread with delicate flowered teacups, teapots, saucers, jams and jellies, each with their own tiny spreading knives, made him feel like a skyscraper. Small bunches of drying herbs hung from the corners of the walls and minature drawers of loose tea leaves sat on each sideboard contributing to his growing sense of claustrophobia.

He braved the great unknown every day, but he felt completely out of place in this small shop. He was afraid to move.

If only he could find a sourdough as good as Nana’s. He missed Nana’s sourdough. No one in his family knew the recipe. No one had cared to save it.

Despite tasting several storebought sourdough loaves and surviving almost all the single ladies attempts at sourdough (why would anyone mix in olives or black licorice?) in this town, he still couldn’t find one as good as Nana’s.

It was official. He was a sourdough snob. A purist. Finding Nana’s sourdough was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

But he thought he smelled it here.

“Excuse me,” he called out, clearing his throat. He didn’t want to move further in and risk breaking anything, yet he didn’t want to yell and scare the bejeezus out of whoever was baking this early in the morning either.

Around the corner, from the back, stepped a petite blond woman with flour on her left cheek. “May I help you?” she inquired with a lift of her eyebrow and a hand on her hip. It wasn’t the warmest welcome he had ever had.

“Do I smell sourdough baking here?”

“Yes, you do.” she replied, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Is that a crime?”

He realized that he was still clad in his Forest Ranger uniform, including his sidearm. “No m’am. I’m sorry. I was just hoping for a loaf of your sourdough bread.”

“We open at 7:30 AM.”

“But . . . ”

“You can come back and place your order then. Sourdoughs sell out quickly, so I recommend you pre-order several days in advance,” she replied directly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to tend to the sourdough and pastries.” She turned and disappeared back around the corner.

Ugh! He may or may not have found Nana’s sourdough, but he wouldn’t know for several more days. One thing he was pretty sure about, he found Nana’s attitude!

(Sorry! I know it’s more of a start to a story than a poem, but inspiration struck & I ran with it. I hope you enjoyed it!)

White, cold, silent.

Floating from the sky.

Jack Frost usually strikes at night.

His is an eerie, beautiful silence.

Flakes catch light and shine back proudly.

Almost gravity-defying in their slow descent from above.

Stick around for a while. Stay and play.

Wash the world in white, ushering in

a new start, on a new day, in a new year.

Warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.

Goey, little fingers dip them into a mug of cold milk.

Sweet first bite, chocolate smears on lips, milk dribbles down chin.

YUM!

Eagerly, little fingers search out the milk for a second dip.

Tip. Splash! Oops! Tears.

“Don’t cry over spilled milk! I’ll get you another.”

Just like that, all is right with the world again.

“Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too. But perhaps it was only an echo.” Lois Lowry The Giver

What was that?

Behind him, he heard a scrape. GO!

Across vast distances of space and time,

from the place he had left, he hears them,

all the people he left behind.

Quietly sounds drift to him.

He used to make them laugh; now he makes them cry.

There are too many words, too much emotion.

It all bounces around in his mind.

What is real? What is not?

He’s running. From what?

He doesn’t know. Did he ever know?

He’s not sure, but he feels that running is right.

Feet slapping concrete, blood pumping, sweat dripping,

breath gasping, even though he is so, so tired and weak.

Behind him, across vast distances of space and time,

from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too.

But perhaps it was only an echo.

Purple mountains, yellow seas of grass stretch out below.

Twin balloons lift off, seeking, searching,

stretching the limits of flight.

Two aeronauts launch into blue skies.

With each pull of the burner, the balloon ascends higher.

Air thins, breaths come more quickly, temperatures plummet.

Where does man’s power end and God begin?

Apparently, it happens slowly. At first, it’s just a little — hardly noticeable. “How did this get so warped?”

Pulling away the hard outer layers. Uncover the damage — wet, black mold. This cancer is eating away at our home.

Waiving the white flag of surrender, we call in the professionals. Two men in coveralls and masks arrive with saws, blowers, and fans.

Pounding, hacking, sawing, and blowing. Fans going 24/7 for five straight days. Nightly, the blowers sounded like an airplane taxiing before takeoff.

Six months later . . . a sleeping daughter is on a mattress on the floor of her brother’s room. My clothes still litter the living room couch. When will we return to normal?

Pulled along,

leashed to your expectations.

Fast, slow, on course or off,

you set the pace.

I’ve had enough.

I use my weight

and dig in the tread of my shoes.

Resist.

Stop.

We stand at an impasse.

Each staring at the other.

I turn right, you lean left.

I step confidently, changing direction.

I tug, you follow, striding with me.

It is no longer you leading me,

but the two of us traveling side by side.

Unearthed in the backyard, a Folger’s coffee tin containing:

One rusted bicycle bell,

A cracked New Kids on the Block cassette,

Two pink and yellow friendship bracelets,

Dr. Pepper Lipsmackers,

Folded lined-paper hearts and triangles,

A faded polaroid of two girls wearing neon,

hair in ponytails with scrunchies,

arms wrapped around each other,

smiling silver.

She observes from afar.

She slowly stalks her prey, friends,

an endangered species in this concrete jungle.

Oblivious to her, they stare into their palms.

Walking blindly, navigating obstacles, bridges, stairs.

Capturing themselves, yet missing those around them.

Connected in their disconnect, they do not see her approach.

That is when she pounces — smiles and opens doors.

Hoping to be seen.