The Poetry Marathon

Huge gratitude and thanks to Caitlin and Jacob, my Guildy Poets team, and all of you. What an amazing Poetry Marathon year! 🙂

This well-traveled road,

I’ve traversed many a day.

It leads me to the nuns

to whom I bare my soul.

Highway nine-forty-five,

is a simple, country road.

Who knows the power,

of this precious path?

I do. God does.

And now you know.

Most of my life, I’ve been petite.

 A dancer, personal trainer,

five-foot-three, size two.

Then I became a writer.

Paid to sit and pen my words.

I’ve put on thirty-pounds over two years.

Honestly, I love writing, it’s the perfect job.

But I must say, I do miss my dancer’s body.

Every dress has a dream, maybe two.

For me, today, my dreams came true.

One, to drape the body of Lady Maribou.

To be featured in a painting was my deux.

My lines are sleek, my fabric smooth.

Night black of silk and made to move.

When worn, there’s nothing left to prove.

And, honey, let me tell you, I’m never booed.

We’ll live this night together, she and I.

Tomorrow, off to the shop, to clean-dry.

But for this moment of glory, I won’t cry.

There will be others, dresses’ dreams don’t lie.

Welcome to my secret garden party, Willow.

She couldn’t talk back, so she just nodded.

i poured tea for two, chamomile and lavender.

She glanced over at the wild mint patch.

I knew what to do, a leaf or two for each cup.

Her long, green hair blew in the wind.

Mine was cut short for the summer, by then.

We sipped and sat for hours, out there.

Just me and my weeping willow friend.

I awake to find I’m weightless.

Unsure of where I am, I panic.

Then am gently self-reminded,

I live deep in outer space.

No cause for alarm or worry,

at my standard, floating state.

What isn’t typical, is that I’ve

drifted, so far from base.

Hold on, kid, we’ve got you,

a stiff voice says in my ear.

Mars to Houston, snagged her

and putting her back to bed.

snuggle down, babies

let sleep take you away

kid, dog, in blanket

Goodnight my darling angel,

sleep tight until morning comes.

Dance with stars, on a rocketship,

ride a moonbeam, slumber, snooze, doze.

I know, he’s not really sleeping,

but to face reality is beyond my capability.

For now, let me keep my dillusion,

he’ll wake tomorrow, my little boy, my Jamie.

Stepping from mourning into the light of morning, the soft, gray dove perches high upon a crest.

Mr. Owl, kind, eyes wide with wonder, asks, “Whatcha doin’ up so late, pretty, little lady?”

The dove coos, realizes what she took for the sun was only a street lamp, and wearily heads off, back to bed.

All I want, more than anything in the universe, is to be a mother, have friends, and settle down. Hard to do when you’re an emerald-tinted badass with a reputation for assassination and being proud.

Not to mention being the last of my species, to some a novelty to be collected and traded around. But to most, it means no family, no stability, and no dowry or estate to be handed down.

What’s a Zen-Whorbis girl to do, when she’s killed or vanquished most the eligible bachelors around? Sadly, I’ll probably get some space cats, learn to knit, and place a rocker on a moon, safe and sound.