The Poetry Marathon

I love the way he looks at me,
full of love and admiration.

I love the way he looks at me,
with trust and innocence.

I love the way he looks at me,
when I hold him in my arms.

I love the way he looks at me,
while waiting for our next adventure.

I love the way he looks at me,
for reassurance and safety.

I love the way he looks at me.

There’s so much talk about normal –
the “new” normal after my parents deaths,
the “new” normal post pandemic.

People have asked me before
“why can’t you just be normal?”

The truth is I don’t know what “normal” is
and I don’t think I want to be normal.

I was supposed to have a husband and kids by now,
a house in the suburbs,
maybe be a nurse or a teacher,
a good Christian woman.

But I’m a 52 yr old queer woman,
never married,
no white picket fence for me,
a social worker.

I went left instead of right.

I don’t want to be normal.

I’m a rebel.
a silent rebel.

The faster I go,
the less it will hurt,
pace in circles
contain the angst.

The faster I go,
the more I will fall
my body numb
my mind blank.

Slow down and stroll,
be present in the world.
Inhale the scent of the
rose, the grass, the earth.

Slow down your step,
feel the breeze
wrap you in it’s embrace,
let the sunshine inside.
Listen for the birds,
the rushing water.

Slow down.

751 unmarked graves found,
just children,
innocent ones who should
not know such awful truths
about humanity or rather
inhumanity

751 lives cut short,
separated from family,
from community

751 unmarked graves
of children shipped off,
language and culture forbidden.

751 children whose land we stole

751 children

what did we do?

I had so many plans for the trip –
castles, burial passageways, concerts,
pubs, live music, the site of the 1916 Easter Rising.

I wanted to walk back in history, see the life
once lived by the grandfather I never knew.

I wanted to see the jail where Grace Gifford married Joseph Plunkett
hours before his death. His crime – standing up to the oppressors.

I wanted to see so many things.
But it was not to be.
The pandemic took over.

Pubs closed, concerts and my flight home canceled.
Dublin became a ghost town.

Stranded in a different country that somehow
felt like home, I was alone yet not alone.

Friends stepped up with offers of money, hospitality,
help finding a new way home.
But part of me wanted to stay.

So, I drank my pints and Irish coffee at the hotel pub.
I took the last tour to Belfast.
I saw Trim Castle and the Bective Abbey
I walked St. Stephens Green and the
streets of Dublin.

I made the most of it.
“All I could do was shrug my shoulders
laugh and say ‘Ah sure, that’s my life
for ya’”
Credit – from Down The Crooked Road by Mary Black

“Your life is important to me”
she said
before she left.

So many words unspoken
and
so many tears uncried.

“Your life is important to me”
she said
before she left.

Her roses continuously bloom
full of color and fragrance.

“Your life is important to me”
she said
before she died.

Sitting on your patio,
you want coffee
so I make you some.
You want it cold.
so I take it back and
ice it.
You want
the meals I
make, the
desserts I bring.
You want
what I give you
but you don’t
want me.

Slamming
the door
in my
face,
she said
nothing.
That
should’ve
told me
everything.