The Poetry Marathon

she liked to call Monday her Sabbath

and eat peaches at the lake

under a canopy of beach elms

with the squirrels chattering

brave enough to scanter across her picnic blanket

stealing peaches for themselves

celebrating in glory their bounty

which they didn’t have to steal

because she was ready to toss them a spare

peach for the beach

until the moon shown

a perfect peach in the evening sky

reflecting orange syrupy colors

that dripped away like her Sabbath

I probably should have waited until I’d fallen in love

or was old enough to vote

instead

as soon as I met myself fully for the first time

stepped out of my closet approved sanctuary

declared myself ready for my happily ever after

I was asked, not asked, told, to leave this house,

abomination.

They did give me $100 to get started

on my way

as long as my way was away.

I sewed a bright pink triangle to my backpack

to make sure we all knew

what exactly was happening here.

Transcripts would not be following me,

and my happily ever after became my happily never after.

Shelters don’t take minors.

Minors are fresh meat on the streets.

So I headed to the mountains, of Colorado.

I don’t think of myself as homeless, but houseless.

My home is in my tent, with my sketch pad, and a dog that adopted me along the way.

I named her Milk. For Harvey Milk.

Our hometown is here, and our time is now.

We once camped in a lady’s backyard for four months.  We chopped wood for her and piled it on the back porch.

She offered us a space in the house, in a room with a crucifix, but we’d rather live houseless than in a room with a tomb.

When she died her son gave me her hatchet, and I keep it in the tent to sleep with at night.   Me and Milk and our hatchet are home now.

Happily severed after.

the girl child came early to church

to help prepare the sanctuary

place the candles

put the ribbons into the book in the right places

place flowers in vases for the altar

she vacuumed and swept

even used Windex and newspaper on the stained glass windows that were low enough for her to reach

she pulled the empty silver insert out of the baptismal font

filled it with water

and brought it to the priest for a blessing

for that is how holy water gets its holiness,

but

the priest bent down

took the silver bowl of water from the girl child

and asked her to bless the water,

and the priest;

the girl child placed both of her hands into the water

and began to splash

and smile

and the blessing words that she spoke were,

“thank you, God, thank you”

and the splashing holy water landed on the girl child, and the priest, and the altar, and more

we carried her poetry in an old lunch box

metal, with a broken clasp

so we tied it shut with an orange bandanna

and put a sunflower in the knot

there was a faded picture of Kermit the Frog on the outside

I led,

we took turns carrying the lunch box

as we maneuvered the boardwalk of Yellowstone Park

the stench of sulfur crept into our clothes

we knew we’d take the stench home with us,

she followed behind

in her wheelchair

the eagle floated the stretch of the river beside us

while she floated, using those electronic controls that respond to her lips, her breath

steering her own way on the boardwalk

content to follow behind, mostly so I didn’t hover

free to glance

at whatever caught her inner eye

selecting images and collecting words along the way

so that when we arrived at the end of the boardwalk

at that big deck in the mountain meadow

where moose wander by

I would open the lunch box

drop the sunflower and forget it there

pull out a new piece of paper

she asked me to use the purple pen

and scribe her words

if I could choose one

to walk or fly, I’d choose to

give eagle a ride

she titled the poem “home”

the patron saint of cooking

stands in my kitchen now

with the pantry doors wide open

sweat upon her brow

stands in my kitchen now

the counter filled with harvest

sweat upon her brow

a fresh loaf of bread also now rests

the counter filled with harvest

the tomatoes this year abundant

a fresh loaf of bread also now rests

basil is the ultimate accompaniment

the tomatoes this year abundant

the patron cooks her food poems

basil is the ultimate accompaniment

there’s drooling from the garden gnomes

the patron cooks her food poems

every stanza is now complete

there’s drooling from the garden gnomes

and everyone else on Maggie Street

(Prompt for Hour Eight!!!!

The dreaded form prompt! This year I scheduled it a lot earlier in the marathon. This year the prompt has to do with my favorite form, the pantoum.

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next.

Now in case that all was a little much for you, here is a link to a pantoum generator Jacob made: http://jacobjans.com/pantoum.html

The key to writing a pantoum is to write about something that either obsesses you, or something that automatically requires some sort of repetition (ie cooking).

If you want to the repeated lines can include some new words, but they should still be recognizable.

Here are two good example pantoums:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/56284

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/parents-pantoum  )

I keep my angst in my pants

not in the pockets

but sewn into the lining

oh, I have it with me

I can get it out if I need it

clip some of the stitches

and pull it out so I can hold it

let it do its angsty thing

but it cannot get out on its own

mostly, it is enough to know that it is near

resting on my right hip

the emphasis here on resting

it will be rested up if I need it

I don’t remember ever needing it

but I need my pants

and my right hip comes with me where-ever I go

so, my angst is nearby

waiting

waiting

waiting

resting and angsty

her home was outside the village

near the stables

quiet, restful, separate

she spent her time reading, or writing, or tending to her flowers

she had a cat that liked to nap

she was the death tender

summoned when necessary

needed

tucked away otherwise

she arrived smelling of star anise

that left a taste on your tongue even after she left

from breathing in, and breathing out

the anointed scent of journey

beyond

her breathing whispered Pachelbel’s canon

the one in D

the parade dirge

keeping everything moving along as it should, as it would

the death tender shook out the thin veil

that wrapped itself around the room

so instead of haunting it was inviting

silvery wisps of blessed light peaking through

she prayed in ancient prose to ancient ones who had long ago

slipped into the light

an ancient light growing brighter

never extinguishing

bringing ancient and present together in one star,

the return home

after death

the death tender returned

to her own home

outside the village

near the stables

for now

knowing one day the ancient would pull her through

to return to being

stardust scented anise

twitter me a story,

yours,

I want to twitter you mine

140 characters, it’s complicated

girl, born poet, first memory is scent of donut; craved motherhood, made choices accordingly, now loves these three, a girl, God – all poets

(prompt was write a poem about technology)

I was born with a full head of hair

and I have worn it long

always

at 49 and 11/12ths years old

my hair is exactly the same

as when I was 4 and 11/12ths years old

long

straggly

splittish ends

brushed only in the morning

a day’s worth of adventures captured in my hair

at 4 or 49 my hair looks best braided

two braids

nothing fancy, no French braids or fishtail braids

two braids, one on the left and one on the right, three strands each

you can sleep in them and wake up the next day

and do nothing to your hair

but go out for new adventures

at 4 I added ribbons of all the colors

at 49 I add a bandanna of all the colors

but since the day I was born

I have waited

and wanted

and wished

for my hair to turn gray

not above my ears like it is now

but the full full head of gray hair that others want to wash out

I’m ready to wash in

was born ready

to begin

my moonlight soliloquy

he put on the beekeeper’s suit

pulled the netting over his face

and headed out to the back of the garden

gathering caps in his non-descript pail

and bringing them inside

in the kitchen he setup the caps

to drain of their sweet nectar on the counter

capturing the golden flow

emptying what he wanted most

eventually, the caps emptied

he washed them

and washed them again

then placed them on the stove in a pot and melted them

straining the melted wax through the cheesecloth he kept in the pantry

being careful not to burn himself

wax, pliable imagination

wet and wondering

he poured into the old canning jars

after tacking a wick inside on the bottom

and stretching the wick over a pencil laying across the open top

like a serpent jumping out of the warm wax bath he had made

after the wax dried

he removed the pencil

and lit wick

you think he has created a candle

or light

but not exactly

the light brushes up against the darkness

making the darkness visible

finally

giving the darkness meaning

darkness, a womb for light

darkness, waiting for light

before darkness there was darkness

waiting for its name