The Poetry Marathon

He walks toward her
from out of the fire
head wreathed in flames
crackling, layered like laurels.

Her eyes are cautious limegreen
tracking his every step
hair coiled, tangled like ivy
rooted to the earth.

He reaches out, sparks floating
free from his open hand
his bracelets glow of molten gold
cracking ringing as they move.

She sheds a tear, clean rainwater
as he nears her drying skin
She cannot move, never has
doesn’t want to leave his light.

They stand as fire spreads
burning trees and ferns and moss.
He wants to say he’s sorry.
She doesn’t need apologies.

“Even though it hurts,” she says
“this is growing, too.
Life is born from ashes
stronger, taller, greener than before.”

He nods, satisfied
the fire dwindling down
he turns away and leaves her
his flames have had their fill.

She casts her gaze back down
tending to her seeds
hidden from him
beneath scorched earth.

An atmosphere sapphire blue
heavy and opaque.
Terrain irregular
cliffs, canyons, deserts
rocky outcrops
vegetated fields.
Some of the stones
grow and live and eat
but oh!
Those alien creatures!
Small, delicate wings in many sets
propel them easily
through dense skies,
drifting and darting
in massive clouds.
Other tread the shifting ground
crawling on many legs
climbing and leaping
morphing chameleon textures.
and the colors!
Neon pinks, oranges, blues, yellows
mixed stripes and spots
some entirely transparent
other glow with technicolor life
illuminating the darkest caves.
They are spectacularly varied
fringes and spines,
armor and tendrils,
solid and immobile,
floating away like feather-light balloons
the size of buildings
or barely a few cells
no two precisely alike.
It is a cruel world
with as much death as there is life
full of poison and tearing jaws
rending flesh and organ and bone.
The creatures hunt
pursue, ambush, and flee.
But it can also be kind
animals dwelling symbiotically
so many forms and shades and scales
all intertwined.
Such a beautiful world
humanity has only reached the surface
of our own alien oceans.

Plants go through cycles,
each different and unique.
Some grow, fall, regrow;
some die after their peak.
I see new life in
the cactus on my shelf.
I think it’s time to
do some growing myself.
I do not know my
flower, I hope it thrives,
surrounded by light
and pollinator hives.
I may bloom in pink,
blue, yellow, purple, white.
Whatever color,
for me it will be right.
I must stretch my leaves
to reach that vibrant sun.
It won’t be easy,
but growing must be done.

ridged fingerprints
gliding over smooth, dry skin
neck unitched
by wild frizzes
scalp unpulled
by controlling ponytails
clothes laying close
and comfortable
holding me softly
beautiful soreness
legs, arms, torso
proof of strength
growing inside
fingers and palm
gliding over soft kitten fluff
brrmmmp!
dappled morning light
coaxing verdant leaves to unfurl
vanilla drifting
on the warm wind
amateur voice sings
gentle, sweet, unpolished
caressing tones
time meanders on
slowly, carefully
crafting what-will-be into what-is
the delicate art
of today

my sister said she saw the statues dance
I told her to leave me alone
but the kid kept saying, every night
“the statues are dancing!”
“no, it’s not the swaying trees!”
“no, I’m not dreaming!”
“I saw it!”
“come watch them with me!”
so here we are
laying in the rainwet grass
of the citylight-lit garden
you can’t see the stars out here
we haven’t spoken
I think she fell asleep
dreaming of statues dancing
then I see a stone hand shift
through the brush
the hand moves stiffly, then the arm
the whole woman slowly wakes
she reaches for the man nearby
and he, too, begins to move
I watch them slide off their pedestals
motions smoothing out
they take each other’s hands
slowly, calmly
underwater giants
unaware of my tiny eyes watching
when their feet touch the earth
there is no shuddering boom
silently these marble beasts
step and leap and spin
they are suspended
in time and air
floating, twisting among the flowers
I fall asleep
to their lullaby dance
my sister and I
tucked away
in the garden foliage

i know what’s coming
cats don’t live longer than people
i remember the pain
the ineffable grief
don’t want to get out of bed don’t want to go to school
how could i
when the best cat the world ever had was dead
i wish i wasn’t there when the vet put her down
she was scared

i wonder as i pet sleek black fur
and rub a spotted tabby tummy
if this is worth it
is the joy they give me now
greater than what will come
what still hurts

maybe it is not a matter of worth
of choice
but of necessity
maybe i need these furry companions
to love unconditionally
to break my heart
someday
maybe not
i think they might be worth it

I am a Christian, but
not like those other ones
I swear that I’m not scary
or judgemental or insecure
like the ones who make me wince at
“What would Jesus do?”

Sometimes I have to wonder
if they’ve even read their Holy Book
that says to love with action
and love abundantly, no “ifs”
Can they serve a Prince of Peace, God of Love,
while spewing hate and apathy?
How dare they invoke Christ’s name in vain with
“What would Jesus do?”

Jesus would invite them in,
poor, rich, pure, corrupt
Speak and show a better way
for those led down thorny paths
I could learn a thing or two by asking
“What would Jesus do?”

Swimming is not my favorite thing.
Cold to get in, wet to get out.
Feet and legs do their job on land.
I am a human, not a trout.

The more you work at it, swimming,
The harder it gets to improve.
Body fat down, body sinks down.
It’s not a sustainable groove.

People feel like swimming to me:
The more I meet, the more I fear.
More people to fail and let down.
But I need some friends around here.

She swims with a green mermaid tail.
Quirky and difficult and cool.
Introverted like me, but she
navigates with ease at this school.

I see her at clubs, church and dance.
We go for a hike in the night.
My words are stunted, splashing feet,
But I think I’m swimming alright.

I’ve dipped my toes in the water.
No shark teeth have bitten me yet.
Maybe next year, I’ll take the dive
Make friends of the people I’ve met.

She doesn’t stand more than five feet tall.
She’s proud of her height, looks older than she is.
Her hair is blond and curly.
She dreams of it dark and tame.

She raises her head to look
straight into my eyes.
“Who are you?”
She asks with excitement.

“Are you a ballerina?
Are you a zookeeper?
Hair dresser or author?”
“Where are you going?”

“Do you have a bunch of friends
you can tell silly jokes?
Can you put your foot behind your head?”
“Do you know how to laugh and smile?”

I look away, no longer meet her eyes.
Her pestering continues, desperate…
“Tell me about school! And all the books you’ve read!”
“What do you love these days?”

I cannot speak, though tears flow free.
Words clot in my throat, choked.
What can I do to not break her heart?
I am so disappointing.

No, no; no and no.
I have no idea.
No, no, not like before.
…What do I love?

I take her hand, lead her to my room.
Show her plants I’ve nurtured, green and growing.
“Wow! You must be proud!
I kill every plant I own.”

I reach far up to grab a basket
crocheted from t-shirts, holding knitted hats.
“That’s a little weird, and cool!
I’m not very patient, I could never.”

She seems happy now, and so am I.
I am still quiet, and cannot answer all her questions.
But I am not an imposter to her.
Only a not-so-grown-up woman,
Still weird and cool and proud.
Still happy.

I am a writer, and my currency is words.

Some authors carry wallets, dictionaries, thesauruses

readily at hand.

I keep my words like loose change,

jumbled in my pocket.

My vocabulary pocket, I am loathe to say,

does not do its job.

A phrase gets caught on something else,

stray syllables lost in deep corners.

My mental fingers are not nimble

enough to wedge them free.

Speaking is a nightmare,

grabbing verbs instead of nouns,

fumbling with my payment

to purchase social           .

Oh no.

It seems my pocket     a hole.

That         thing always      me down!

I’m so sorry       like this.

me      some patches

Before                  out.

almost

!

oops.