The Poetry Marathon

Hour 10, summer

The drive along the main highway seemed endless, holding my sisters hand as the road rolled on behind us.

Our first holiday.

Through country, small town, city, a pit stop, in a strange home, filled with family.

the noise of the city, unfamiliar, restless, back in the car through city, country, over water, to a small town.

A caravan, an anex, a beach, new friends, cousins, aunt and uncle, different rules, new freedoms.

Hours spent roaming scruby bush and white sandy beach my home for those summer days.

The Poet Takes a Break

The rain gauge says almost two inches of rain.
In the brief respite,
the dogs and I go out.
My bones, and the weather app, tell me
it isn’t over yet.

My job is to feed the chickens
and chase a packrat out of the coop.
The dogs patrol the fence
and keep an eye on me.

While I’m out
I pick a handful of green beans
and one ripening tomato.
I’ll cook tomorrow,
and mop up the muddy paw prints in the entry.

Today, I’m writing,
eating out of the fridge,
and letting the dogs run.

Shame On You

Shame, shame, shame.

When all sad songs are gone.

Our hearts are strengthen.

When.

We,

Follow the words of God’s.

With.

Never lasting,

Ending.

Hour 8

I ended up having a lot of fun with this prompt. I think it could use some editing but who knows if I ever will do that. I guess spoilers for A Quiet Place 2

 

A Quiet Place

 

Soft steps in sand

We keep our voices down

Each sound is too much

Even a whisper would be screaming

A broken branch and we run

 

A bad step and screaming

Breaking through the quiet

We get the static ready

To bring back our quiet

The screaming stops finally

 

Hidden in a chamber

That keeps the noise in 

We can speak

Scream

Cry

 

We split

Some staying in the chamber

Some trying to find better

Still the quiet is here

Still we need to keep it

 

We find it the safe place

We find noise in the open

No need for whispers

No need to quiet screams

We are safe

Hour Ten, Text and Image Prompts Together

Solstice

In the lands of my distant ancestors
the ice sings in midwinter,
pinging, crackling, and booming
in eerily beautiful counterpoint
to the northern lights swirling
across nearly perpetual darkness.

Balanced between the two,
pagan and Christian come together
as young girls parade and sing
through the streets of towns and villages,
candles atop their heads
to signify the melding
of Santa Lucia and Norse gods of old.

Fire and water,
ice and flame,
bridged by the smallest among us,
bringing hope and light
to the darkest of days,
repelling the spirits that would do harm,
and luring the return of the sun.

Epiphany

I’d like to share an Epiphany just before the Carnival season begins:

Sainted, wise virgins will contend it’s best to wait for truly wise men,

for upon January 6^th, several Magi upon Bethlehem did descend,

bearing gifts for the Christ Child of gold, frankincense, and myrrh,

while on this day, some followers of Jesus His baptism recall.

Of course, after lamenting their indebtedness and paying arrears,

most Post Moderns lament getting rid of the tree so late in the year.

 

On Women and Wieners (Hour Eight, A Nontraditional Minute Poem)

Sweltering summers in Texas

aren’t meant for big

booty-ful girls

like you and me.

 

Gals like us, we’re just way too much,

even for Texas,

where we always

do things bigger.

 

I smiled, patting her ample butt.

Together, we

waddled off, me

and Honeybun..

 

(A minute poem is composed of 60 syllables split between three stanzas. The four lines of each stanza should have a syllable count of 8/4/4/4. Traditional minute poems are written in iambic pentameter using the rhyme scheme of aabb, ccdd, eeff. This was way too difficult for me to compose in just 60 minutes, so I improvised by eliminating both the rhyme and meter requirements, resulting in my “nontraditional” knockoff version above. Honeybun is the amazingly adorable big beautiful wiener (dog) seen above, who entered my life eight years ago, along with my boyfriend Lonnie,)

A Litany

If we were lucky enough
lucky enough in the pandemic
in the pandemic we survived
we survived quite comfortably
quite comfortably we were full of angst
we were full of angst and counted
and counted our blessings
our blessings were many and great
many and great we acknowledge
we acknowledge and yet we fear
we fear for the future
over which we have no
control and let us say
(fill in the blank)

Watching, Waiting

I can’t tell anymore

whether smog, fog,

or smoke sits at the edge

of the world this evening

 

I have many eyes to do my watching

and little detail to spare

for the monster

lurking in the corners

teeth bared, tail low

 

The sunset is behind me now

Where the night belongs to him,

Tomorrow is mean for me

 

(Hour 10)

Different

 

Poem 10

Different

 

Why can’t I be like everyone else?

Whispers tell stories any kid can see.

 

Minor holiday Hanukkah blown up

to act like overwhelming Christmas.

 

Why can’t I be like everyone else?

Why do I have to be different?

Little Harvey wondered these things.

 

When the small group of Jewish kids

was taken to the back of the school room as much

to not partake in Christmas as to celebrate anything else

he didn’t realize that it was setting him free to be me.

 

Different meant he didn’t need to think and act like everyone else.

Different is how he learned to get beyond the laughter on the Catholic School bus

when his name was called as he joined them on a field trip.

Different got him past the priest who told the Catholic kids not to play with him.

Different explained the nuns who kicked him out of the gym.

 

And different is how he learned that what he chose to do came from an inner place

that didn’t need anyone else to approve.

 

The curse of my childhood

set the stage

for the freedom that came later.

 

Because I wasn’t taught to not think, just listen.

I wasn’t taught that the foremost thing was to be a good sheep.

 

I was taught that there is freedom in different.

And that has been the directive the rest of my life.