The Poetry Marathon

A Crate of Picked Peaches

A Crate of Picked Peaches

 

dappled as summer’s sunset

blushed yellow & red, stacked

perfectly in a wooden crate

 

each rounded cheek boasts

fuzzy flesh, begs teeth

to sink into skin, savor

 

like Renoir’s velvet still 

tells a mouth-watering story

of sunshine rained sugar

 

stone fruits: big softballs, plump

water juicing glory

firm, but soft in hand

 

think of childhood sweetness

moments before waking

dimples upon pillows

 

magnificent and magnificence

individual and collective, all

uniform attentive spheres

 

each tree-ripened fruit

peaks at its sweetest tang

picked for this June moment 

 

sumptuous fragrance whisks me

to a fruit stand, my father selects 

treats for Sunday afternoons

 

what delight, gift of gods

to eat, peach juice dripping

liquid gold down my arms

 

June 26, 2021

Nature’s fury

Windshield wipers slap back and forth,
Hands gripped white on the wheel,
Wall of water in front of me.

Life giving, life taking,
Water to give, to wash away.

Radar fails me, into the beast we go,
Angels above protect us!

The Science of Memory

There are some things that stick with you.
some combination of emotion and the senses
that keep a memory alive,
like the morning I awoke to the Monarchs,
mid migration, all the limbs on the trees alive
with butterflies flittering like leaves in a breeze.

I remember carrying my son, not yet a day old,
wrapped in a blue crocheted blanket
and my arms. How careful I was
as I got into the back of the car
to take him home. And how hungry.
I hadn’t eaten for thirty-six hours, at least.
We stopped for hamburgers.

Three years later, in a hospital this time,
a nurse brought my daughter to me.
She was as light as as a hollow-boned bird.

I was embroidering a gown for her.
As I set the embroidery aside to take baby into my arms,
the nurse exclaimed, “You love her!”
as if that were in question.

I remember the first time I made love
to the man I’ve slept with for the past 38 years.
Maybe I knew then that he was forever.

And it only takes a tiny jog to the memory
For me to see the balloons
rising from the valley floor
that morning in the Sandias.

Leaving–3pm

Mournful train whistle
headed out of town
Is there room for one
more?

My bag is packed
I have all I need
I won’t be returning
There’s nothing here
for me anymore

I need a change of scenery
I can’t stay here
May I board the train now?
I have my ticket right here
I don’t want to be late

Please Sir,
What’s the hold up?
I’ve heard the call
of all aboard
Please don’t leave me here
alone at the station

PLEASE!
I’ll do anything-
I’ve seen them board this very train
not long ago-
I have to find them
Let me through!

Standing there
trying to push through
I’ve seen them
I know I have
PLEASE!

I’m sorry miss
I can’t let you board
this train
You don’t have the
right ticket

Where this train is going
you won’t need that bag
It’s a one way trip
you won’t be coming back

They aren’t on this train
I don’t know what you
think you saw
but there’s nothing at this
station for you
Go home.

Yes they are!
I deserve to see for myself
I’ve heard the final call
Let me pass!

Go home child
You’re not ready for this trip
You think becasue you packed
a bag, this is a sleepover?
It’s not!

Try to understand-
I’m doing you a kindness
heed my words-
this train is not for you

Falling to my knees
begging please
I can’t stand to be here anymore
I know where this train is headed
and I want to go too

I know I won’t be back
I hurt for that
I know I can’t change my mind
once I’m on the train
and I am at peace with that

I can see you hurt for this
decision that I am making
and it IS my decision
I am making it free and clear

Give me your ticket
we will see
This train is not for you
but it’s not my choice

Nervously I wait-
The train’s been delayed
and that means angry people
but there’s only stillness

I’ve spoken to my boss
He says you may not board
Your ticket is not good today
maybe in a few years
you can try again

So there’s not room for one more
I’ve wasted your time
I had to be on that train
and now I have to wait

I’m sorry
I have to go
We’re pulling out
good bye!

Standing there alone
watching until you’re out
of sight
weeping silently

Mournful train
headed out of town
there wasn’t room for one more
But I snuck aboard anyway
at least a part of me

Don’t forget me

Step

The first one is big,

each one after easier,

you just need to start.

A Night of Terror

Nighttime, when strange things happen

The full moon shining brightly

Gleaming on the surface of the river

Tempted was I in this beautiful scenery

So, I threw down my anchor from my heavy boat

And laid down on the hard surface

To gaze at the stars

Not a sound was heard

Gone were the crackling frogs and screeching cricket

Then my boats began to sway from side to side

Swinging violently across the river

Pulling to the bottom of the river

On my feet, I sprang

As I tugged harder on the chain

But it wouldn’t budge

Nervously, a gulped a bottle of rum

It didn’t help

Neither did the enormous  drag of pipe calm me

Instead, a thick white mist crept

To the surface my hands, legs, and feet

I could hardly see

Hidden behind the fogs

Were mysterious creatures

Swimming, laughing mockingly at me

My breath came out in hard pants

And so to my legs I stooped

My eyes wide opened

My ears straightened

Listening for the slightest sound

A nasty feeling of weakness

Overcame me  into sickness

This made me tremble in fright

Slowly, I sat in fear

Grabbing my boat with two hands

I feel my knuckles turn pale

With veins sticking out

So, I held my eyes closed

And Then, I sensed  a dark shape

Looming over me

Not one but two

Two fishermen it was

They helped me

Together we pulled, yanked, and tugged

Little by little the anchor moved

Slowly and deliberately we pulled

Into the boat, we dropped the anchor

With the  body of an old woman

Whose neck was laced with a rope

That held a huge stone.

 

Story adapted from Guy de Maupassant’s tale

HOUR 9 A Portrait in Portent

A Portrait in Portent

 

Our passions ever filled by the cruel fulfilment of primitive desire,

We bask in the glory of our own intellectual sadism,

Never perennial and lasting in its fleeting solace.

A new offering upon bloodied grandeur’s throne,

Presently to be proffered to my Valkyrie,

The individual a martyr to my void,

A sacrifice to her wanton macabre,

To suffer in extended bliss,

Subservient to my brush.

Stoic and bound in self,

Internally tormented,

Hapless against us,

Touched on canvas,

Immortalized.

 

 

 

 

 

Fish dancing on a Plate

Oh wait it’s just a date
What says the plate
Yes said the Fish
We will be dancing 💃🏽

Where will be be dancing says the plate
Oh replied the Fish
I will be dancing on a plate
Which plate ? Asked the plate
No other but you my evening date

Copyright © 2021 Roxann Lawrence (Poetessrock)

Our Friends Agree (Hour 8 – Half Marathon 2021)

Our Friends Agree
(Hour 8 – Half Marathon 2021)

After being friends
Since childhood
After your boyfriend
Caught you
With another guy
Just after he brought up the possibility of marriage
And told you he could no longer be with you,
And you agreed he just wasn’t capable of keeping up with you.
We would talk for hours
Usually on the phone
You would tell me your thoughts
Deconstructing what was right
And wrong
About him
About you
About the two of you together.
When we were together
Everyone thought we would make a great couple
They never understood why we were not a “we.”
We never acted on it.
We kept our emotional distance
We thought it better to remain friends
And we talked for hours about right and wrong
One night after a few drinks
You invited me in
And we finally perfected our relationship
Elevating from friendship.
Since then you have
Avoided seeing me
While seeing other guys
But we continue talking on the phone
Where we engage in lengthy conversations
One night I brought up the subject of us
You agreed that is okay with you
That I am in love with you
And that perhaps you loved me
Or could love me
Or might be in love with me in some way.
But after that you continued going out
Letting them buy you drinks
Finally finishing with one more one night stand
Our friends think we would make a great couple
Though you are extroverted
And I don’t get out much.
I am a classic introvert.
You texted me recently
With a photograph
Of you topless on the beach
With a guy in the background
Hardened in his speedo bikini suit
Bringing you a drink
I don’t know if we are playing games,
Pretending we are playing tag
Or something more or less
I would like to get on the same page
And tell everyone it is no or yes
I am tired of guessing.
I know you are very good at telling me
How you feel and what you believe is the truth
You show me often your ability
To understand people and their motives
But when it comes to us
You want me to guess.
I don’t know if you think
I will outlast this phase
(one that I am going through?
Or one that you are going through?)
Until you are ready to settle down
Or if you think you will find someone better.
And if I asked you for just another night of fun
Would that be better?
Would we then be able to settle down?
Do you think, I’m really in love with you?
Is that the issue that stands between us
A concrete wall between us.
If we could only have one
Could it be you?
Would it be me?

Hour 8: The Good Place

The Good Place

 

If I were to pass away today

and take leave of my body

and find myself on the other side

of the thin veil between life and death,

where would I wake up?

 

If there was a heaven, 

would it be like the Christians tell it?

Peopled by Raphael’s dough-faced 

baby cherubim inattentively

attending the Madonna’s gate

behind which spread buffets of milk and honey?

Or would there be terrifying multi-eyed wheel beings 

Like their book says?

 

If there was a hell,

would it be all bad marketing and poop jokes?

Would the personal hell awaiting me

be built inside of a small windowless office

on hold with a doctors office

listening to the same muzak on loop…

for millennia.

 

Perhaps, there is some middle ground

steeped in sepia and perpetual “meh-ness”

or some inexplicable void 

orchestrated by incomprehensible beings.

 

What careful calculations and 

mathematics of meaning-making

could possibly surmise the contributions

of a single life?

And what a horrible power to wield.

 

I don’t know the answers

or if anyone is really in charge

but, I do hope that it is fair

that they have a sense of humor,

and that there is froyo in the beyond.