The Poetry Marathon

The flash-bang panic

of the hour nearly missed,

lost in the nostalgia of

wearing down the W button

all to play at being a wolf

without even knowing

that I was learning.

How much in my brain has roots

in those young obsessions I cultivated

to escape that thing called trauma?

(Hour 5)

The rabbit finds another victim,

tender green and freshly planted,

so the flowers now must rearrange.

There’s no dirt in our ground,

nor luscious grass to speak of,

but I take mindful care in the

ladies I’ve chosen for the merry-go-garden.

Flashy zinnias and fleshy watercress,

slender poppies bobbing in the breeze.

A million shards of liquid diamond

glimmer from periwinkle to sapphire,

and all the crimson in between,

from handsome cornflowers up high to

happy clumps of alyssum watching down below.

We host wasps and bees, moths and butterflies,

and every now and then, a frog or lizard,

and the resident spiders are polite and cooperative.

In the garden, everyone is welcome.

(Hour 4)

Does the dawn call so quickly?

Morning like a flashlight through the red

window, stuttering and shy

If only I could draw myself from the cave

of quiet silence

into the world begging, begging me to join

(Hour 3)

Our hearts like wildfire

This day so full of promise

Now just beginning

(Hour 2)

Morning whiskers with

paws thunder to the window.

Outside, the world shakes itself awake.

It’s hour of peeking sun and

waking song birds,

warm fur on the cheek

and a purr in the chest.

(Hour 1)