The Poetry Marathon

1     Deciding on green

Grateful for green

Outside a spring window

Evolving and becoming

Too many colors to count

Soon heat will fade

These infinite shades

To become a suggestion

Of autumn’s palate

A wise choice green

Soothing hopeful free

Though disappearing

Behind fuels and fumes

Most realizing now

Green is essential

And the ironic truth

Tis the color of money

Bought the box of twenty-four

Skin tone colors of the world

Crayola colored pencils

Keenly looking forward to

Discovering my true hue

Nice to know I have one

I bid adieu to all of you

Comrades that juggle words

Of many hues and views

Sharing time is a fine gift

Grateful being with you

Before this old girl

Turns around

Once again

Namaste

Houseplants are foster children

I have purchased none of them

Arriving hearing my apologies

Unwanted gifts to be kept alive

Holding that all things green

Belong outdoors where God planted

Them on one of those seven days

My yard holds nothing premeditated

Almost with regret I water the

Five-foot avocado casually grown

On a whim after a spicy dinner

With guacamole chips and Margaritas

Opposed to the death penalty

Committed to sustaining existing

Life here in my home I must water

Or commit homicide risking court

I will bury my sister’s ashes

Forty years past when I stole

Her from the grave returning

Dirt to the open place she

Was destined to rest

A secret her passing from

This life that plagued her

Our parents silently ordering

Me not to tell I had lost her

Grieving was invisible

I will miss walking by her

Each day and evening as she

Watched me travel this life

That wandered up and down

Always not having her

Finally I will get to cry

Rolled in her favorite blanket

Cozy and dreaming with an

Occasional yelp and yip

She sleeps not ready to

Greet this warm morning

I could start her day early

Call her to the kitchen

Almost time to walk the yard

Relieve herself and take a sniff

But yet she sleeps beyond

Just a pup though patient

With my hourly scribbles

She’ll never know how sacred

Her presence has been to this

Tired old gal writing more

Poems

There’s a frog in my pocket

By choice he likes it there

Finding the brook too wet

I let him stay without

Revealing he is with me

We shop for groceries and

Wander the local bookstore

He sleeps in the bathroom

Cozy on a golden sea sponge

He rarely croaks but smiles

And won’t tell me his name

Offering the outdoors just

In case he needs to leave

We end up watching old

Grace and Frankie reruns

A sweet happy face he will

Scoot out his sticky tongue

To give me a Goodnight kiss

Leaving the safety

Of entitlement

Even knowing what that is

Getting uncomfortable

To be of some use

Being an insider has never

Felt so out of touch

Finding a tribe that

Teaches how to help

Becoming a challenge

Running out of time

Hoping the young folks

Will use what’s left

On the clock to turn

Us in the right direction

We have left the shore

Drifting in collective stress

Finding it hard to write poems

That don’t frighten and

Overwhelm with sadness

Slowly revealing to

Teen granddaughters

Grandma’s been

Around the block

Secrets are sacred

Advice is expected

Requiring a dose

Of diplomacy

Hinting that I’ve been there

With care not to judge

Knowing when it’s time

To walk out of the room

Tricky path to walk

So many pitfalls

Wanting them safe

While street smart

Keep them listening

While doors remain open

Should they need help

Text this old gal

Though a country road

Hundreds pass each morning

Off to work, school, errands

Passing a slow pace

By my home with the

Maple out front

My mission as messenger

Is to inform and remind

Humanity that there are others

And to the others

That I am trying

To understand

Trans flag

BLM flag

Green planet flag

Old Glory

Pride flag

ERA flag

Adding to this collection

When I learn something new

Neighbors BLM flag stolen

There’s work to be done

The list of no more

Grows longer

Bucket list concedes

No adventure

Comfort and chores

Reveals a boring me

Days pass and wonder

What have I done

Is it enough to be worthy

Or just taking up space

Must I keep listening

To other’s complaints

Looking forward to

Ice cream just soft

Spencer Tracy reminds

Me he is gone

The yard grows wild

Because I let it

Accepting there will

Be no more cats

Has come slowly

I’m still not sure

There may be just

One left in me