The Poetry Marathon

Comforting, warm, funny, sweet, a little wicked,

smart, witty, solid, real, careful, mindful, my kind.

Yeah, that’s my man. That smile, that laugh,

the frown in focus, the sadness, shoulders, hands,

all of it in their pieces good, but in this whole

he is himself, someone strong, shouldering

so much so soon, and unafraid to truth,

to honesty, and his is the voice I crave

the last at night and the first in the morning,

that long, sweet smile that melts something in me,

a slow unthawing, and balming, slowly,

all our hurts, one long touch at a time,

and the wrap of his arms is home again.

I prided myself on not crying at goodbyes.

One last hug, one last kiss, a voice,

then the stairs to check out, a glance back, down,

and you running, long-legged, keeping pace.

How I wanted to run back.

That smile, warm, bright, left me aching,

but no tears, not until I was about to fly,

and the snap. A picture, of your empty

passenger seat, after a whirlwind week.

‘Missing my copilot, x’

And the tears unthawed, fell,

and even the dull roar of engines

was nothing to the need to run back,

land steel wings and come back home.

Hold on honey, wait for me.

The wind will rise, it will turn,

and I’ll come back, to run with you,

my pilot, my captain. My love.

Deeply rooted, planted firmly, time has softened my bones.

Once, palms that cradled faces now gone, even the structure

suggested, the curve of moss like flesh, and the trees groan

with my voice, their roots like veins, arteries, and somewhere

deep in vegetable memory was a dusty table, wooden floors

and heartwood bright and deep, slow kisses on lips

now long since faded, and the remains of me buried deep

in bracken and old memory. If you tread here, step lightly,

feel the reverence of my joy touch you, my life still golden here

long after I am dust and my ghost no longer skirts

the edges of eternal dreamless sleep and memories

soft, full, honey-warm and sweet, and the hubris

and ugly matter that made me undone, leaving only

peace, silence, and the slow unmaking of a woman gone, still loved

by the trees, the mushrooms, the moss.

Take a deep breath,

drink water, brush teeth,

splash face with warm water,

try not to cry,

use Pond’s Cold Cream generously,

slather it thick, wash it off,

remember you have short hours

and shorter years.

Cry again, rinse well,

don’t look in the mirror, grit your teeth,

and remember what society tells you,

that no matter how thin or stylish

or well-wrapped and packaged you are,

to the beast that gnaws on self confidence

you will never be good,

never be beautiful enough.

So rinse it all off, and repeat,

shave, moisturize, pluck and primp

until there’s nothing left

to pick.

I leaned back, looking at a blue sky,

and perhaps to some other eyes it’s grey,

or green, or deep purple, but the wind was soft

and the air was pure, and as a child I thought

how sweet life must be with watermelon, warm sun,

and slow, crooning blues.

I feel it drumming in my bones,

ice water pulsing deep,

I need to go there,

the place of ice and snow,

deep hot springs,

drums, pulsing, pounding,

deep forests and woodsmoke.

And I crave for the life of old,

my people now gone,

I miss my need for home

in a place long dead and gone.

A calling, for what’s long dead,

what’s been dust and story

lingering ghosts in my blood still.

Sitting together on a porch,

firs rustling in the dark,

a bite of Autumn not far ahead

and the two of us, quiet,

as the deep smells of forest, of earth,

fill the air, and I dream

of an hour spent with you, my love,

doing nothing but savoring

the silence and solitude

a night of the cabin, watching stars

and looming thunderstorms

while the nail thin rail of a moon

hangs low, slender white curve

in purpling dusk.

Sat here, still,

rain pattering,

hands idle,

mind drifting,

cold coffee

a moment alone

and cold silence.

She stands, tall,

slim, brown-haired,

heart in throat,

hands in hair,

quietly talking to air

madness reigns

in academia

ink stains and words

stuck in her chest,

waiting to get out

Crouched in the dark, stats flicker

In an out, rolling damage,

click clack the dice fall,

skeletons clatter on paper shadows

and ink dreams follow a party.

Dragons, elves, queens and kings

all fall to my rule.

With a strum of my strings

and a bonus action plays,

I will fuck a god with a roll of dice.