The Poetry Marathon

Too many to count and name

Spend a day out there looking

Wonder at green that signals

The beginning and end of things

New life hopeful at the start

Buds and sprouts a gentle hue

Then failing flesh and mold

Suggests doom and decay

Heed the waning of green

As a warning that our Mother

Will indeed purge herself

Of our manmade sickness

Should green become a memory

It shall be too late

How do we tell our children

That there was green

Red felt cowboy hat

Double holster holding two cap guns

After smoke the smell lingering

White stitching around the brim

The hat resting on by back

Covering my five-year old self

I saw no cowgirls

No politically correct ladies

On horseback ready to ride

Women were in saloons or

Canning vegetables back

At the ranch

I shoulda been a cowboy

Or a mountain man tending

To my bountiful whiskey still

But alas no one noticed

The cowboy in this girl

She faded to chasing boys

Curling her hair

Hanging up her guns

The red felt hat forgotten

The old gals speak of three years

I see them in the cemetery planting geraniums

I need to water mine

This in-between happens to those left behind

Change of life that begins when a life ends

There are no hormones at play

That first year was boundless

No days of the week or hours of the day

Only the daily reminder that he’s gone

Friends asking how you are not waiting to hear

Protecting them you lie and say you’re getting on

Only those who know don’t ask

A second year offers routine

Cleaning out, giving away, changing numbers

The business that death offers

Now one year to go before another change

The old gals don’t tell what to expect

Trusting them you settle in

A new hairdo and maybe remove the ring

Not looking for a replacement

But getting ready to let go again

Warm puppy head rests on her neck

Almost planned they sigh in unison

She reaches to slide a free hand

Down fawn-colored baby fur

They will sleep until dark when

Stars shine without human challenge

A quick late walk outside for relief

Beneath a Universe of wonder

A slow morning allows more time

To understand each other

With good intentions

Christian ladies set up

Craft tables in the

Church parking lot

Below in the cemetery

A family waits to bury Leo

Perhaps a quick look at

Handmade items for sale

Beneath blue tent mourners pray

The vault truck idles in view

As the grave digger writes

Yet another poem

Thirsty ground has become

Crispy stalks of breakable

Slices of deceased grass

Bright blooms have wilted

As parched petals surrender

Falling in finality

Dry gray stones revealed

The brook losing moisture

While gaining ground

Tall trees without care

Their penthouse leaves

Still luscious green

Frivolous humans

Watering their landscape

As though there is more

The Lone Ranger

wore a mask

to cover his eyes

shelter his identity

Inevitably he would holler

Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!

Which no doubt caused

folks to notice

Bank robbers wear masks

to conceal their faces

though the guns quickly

indicate who they are

Trick or Treaters hide

behind chosen costumes

threatening at your door

for free sweet bounty

The Klan wore white hoods

announcing their intention

conveying fear and danger

to this day it still works

At the grocery store

unable to enjoy breathing

I wear a mask as it is

a matter of life and death

Woodpeckers, Jays, squawky Grackles emptying feeders

The Crows wait on the ground for theirs

Never a cute little Bluebird, a Yellow Finch

Always the loud insistent sloppy eaters

Bags of seed and slabs of suet disappear daily

Trips to the hardware store a weekly event

Needing a coupon each time to keep bellies full

The pleasure of nature becoming a mandate

Now Pigeons in the barn dirty feathers abound

A nightmare of bodily debris gathers

Swooping low to exit with indignant cries

As though their eviction would be illegal

A mother Robin manages to hatch her young

Risking trips for food while Pigeons complain

Perhaps another week until her babies can fly

To leave this hostile world and return to trees

Greetings Poets,
This year I will enjoy the company of my puppy, Miss Millie. Finally someone I can read to!
I wish you all a creative, fun, and snack rich experience. Though I have done this before I do
not consider myself a poet, however, on most days I consider all singing, humming, laughing
humans POETS.
Blessings and have fun.
Tobe & Millie in Vermont, US

How come you get to be Dorothy?

The Scarecrow asked

Amazed while

Turning to the others

It’s not because

I’m a girl she answered

Sensitive to his feelings

The Lion had gone

Back to work while

The Tin Man listened

I need to learn home

Is not about the rules

Dorothy continued

The Tin Man

Smiled and touched

His loving heart

You don’t need

All the right people

To have a home

Now the Lion bravely

Listened as he

Knew this to be true

Home is accepting

And understanding

A safe place to fall

Oh said the Scarecrow

I knew that

I didn’t Dorothy replied

Welcome home

TobeTT  #24