The Poetry Marathon

Dear Sleep,

You keep wooing me and I keep saying no.

No. No. NO!

Well maybe.

But stop laying there in my bed telling me that the pillow is soft.

I should rest my head. And you will wake me when its 3.

Signed,

Me

There she stood

Alone in the nave

Needing to talk to the Lord

The colorful glass

Helped her be brave

Like some modern-day Joan with a sword.

Some lament their long-gone hair

When chemo steals it, leaves them bald.

Some wear hats to hide behind,

While others flash their flowing scarves.

Like hamsters falling from their heads,

Large clumps fall out and make them cry—

But that’s not how my headgear feels;

Mine is a symbol that I’m winning a fight.

Mine is my warrior helmet bright.

Mine tells the world that I’m not afraid

To wear hats or wigs—to go hairless in spite!

One friend wore wigs,

Though they itched worse than fleas.

She covered her pate with the greatest of ease

With a straw farming hat just as sweet as you please.

One stood on the backstep,

Each day in the breeze,

And flung her gold locks

To the birds in the trees,

With prayers up to God as she tossed it around,

To line their nests with a gift of soft down.

Another sweet lady,

Though age-spotted and old,

Skipped out on the wig

Laced with silver and gold—

And instead, got hairdos to wear that were PINK!

And made a statement far bolder, I think.

Than to camouflage her head in retreat

As if nothing was different, and all was complete.

And yet still another wore baseball caps,

She wasn’t athletic, but stood staunchly ‘at bat’.

She beat all the odds; she beat all the stats,

Outlasting the chemo and growing it back.

She grew back her lashes, her eyebrows and all.

And gave all the caps to some kid who plays ball.

Me, I still have boxes of hats from my Mom,

Who lost her battle and now is gone.

We’d ‘dress to the nines’ on Infusion Day.

Hats, shoes and jewelry, in warrior array.

Because dignity, pride, and holding your ground

Are just as important as the hair on one’s crown

If what’s on the inside marks what on your head,

If the hair’s not just for beauty, but battle instead,

Then bring on the armor, and I’ll fight like a bear.

It’s all about battle—and not about hair!

“Let there be light” and it was so…

And with a flash, it will all go

Back to darkness on the face of the deep,

And those that slumber, those that sleep,

Shall rise through the clouds, to heavenly morn,

Where only light will crown the dawn,

And darkness no more shall reign or shall shadow

And light, alone, will cover all matter.

Leaving darkness below, and lightness above.

One filled with fear; one filled with love.

“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”

The watery waves, though you are tempest tossed.

And see not lighthouse, but rocky shores,

Or sun-baked fields and gorse-filled moors.

They’ll both draw you down, deep down to their keep,

To cover you over. To smother your sleep,

That your slumber be only the memory you keep.

Yes, they know when you’re lost; devour death’s sting—

And you thought you were the food chain king?

When

Diabetes,

Retinopathy,

and Cancer

walk into an

Epstein Barr…

It’s no joke!

Dear Twenty-Two,

I’m only going to shout this once;

my mouth hurts,

my throat,

my teeth,

my heart and soul.

So, listen up!

I remember—

You are incredibly overwhelmed,

changing the bedpan,

keeping the sheets clean,

muting your heartache.

Your emotions are jangled.

You are a mess.

Yet, you are holding it together.   Really together.

Three things I would impart

And pray they find your heart:

When she dies, she will be gone forever.

No one ever understands that until it’s done.

You think you do; you don’t.

Take time to hold her hand,

as well as change the bedpan.

Take time to smooth her sore shoulders,

as well as the sheets.

Take a breath, a deep one,

and let her scent linger,

embedded in your memory.

Take time to let her frail arms hold you;

You are going to need it later,

when there are no long hugs

to keep you from shaking,

from shattering…

When I have none, but those remembered.

Cry. It’s ok.

I remember—

you think it will make her sad,

cause her more pain,

look like you can’t handle the job.

It doesn’t matter if you can handle it;

It matters if she knows you feel the sorrow too.

II

You are going to need to recall these emotions—

How she handles it with grace,

no matter how undignified

the hair loss,

the vomit,

the over-medicated moments.

How her abilities vanish,

one by one,

and she pretends…

she doesn’t notice you noticing.

How to walk tall—

even from a wheelchair,

a scarf on your head,

a bruised vein in your arm.

You. Will. Need. To. Know. This. Later.

There is a final exam.

III Final Point

Don’t let the lessons slide:

Someday,

you will have daughters

who need to be told—

over and over again—

that your pain is…

Not. Their. Fault.

That

Every

Little

Thing

they do for your comfort,

is a gift

you receive,

welcome,

and cherish.

You will need

to build moments,

just like Mom does,

that will be engraved

on their hearts—

Moments

of joy,

of selflessness,

of unbelievable strength through tears—

because that is what she taught you.

That is your legacy,

from her,

to us,

to the next generation

of beautifully strong women.

Women of dignity.

Women of courage.

Whose glory is not their hair…but their heart.

Dear Twenty-Three,

She is gone.

You did your best. I remember—

Now, breathe.

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish

Justice, insure domestic

Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general

Welfare, and secure the Blessings of

Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Even fog

knows to hush and still

until coffee.

It waits yet,

‘til I’ve had my full

canteen fix.

Moonbeams stretch

to touch my cup-fall,

caffeine flood.

Fir above

moon-glow, dockside lake,

bean-brew love

There among the old, old tomes—

Half dust and half formaldehyde—

A book of how to cookie cook,

And one of how to rhythm rhyme,

Where chocolate chip pentameter,

And peanut butter near-rhyme meld

Where Wadsworth, Guest and Tolkien took

Eggs and sugar, mixing well;

With an Oatmeal Cookie—Byron style,

Dickinson’s Tipsy Honeybee Bites,

Liberal sprinks of imagery

In Poe’s Nevermore Raven Lites;

Whipped alliteration well,

Stirred allusion until fluffed,

Minced words at combining speed,

‘Til they got buzzing, crunching stuff—

Folded gently, the page-white whip.

And licked the bowl (so not to waste);

Rolled and cut in couplet lines

Baked for decades—or desired taste.

Salty, savory, published or not,

Cookeries, bookeries, bakery fresh,

Nut-strewn titles, topped with spice,

Where poetry and cookies meshed.