The Poetry Marathon

Self Punishment

I patted the earth

As lovingly as one could with the huge shovel of the excavator.

I shut off the rumbling motor.

My bones rattled on, no longer able to work but not quite able to rest either.

I was finished.

I had now buried everyone I knew,

And some I didn’t.

No stones marked the graves.

What for? There was no one left to read them.

No tears washed my face.

Crying was a luxury for those who would be comforted.

I was too tired to comfort myself.

I closed the door to the shed where I had parked the excavator

And almost laughed as I observed myself lock it.

But old habits are hard to break,

Like living.

I had warned them about the carriers,

Alarmed as they dropped off one by one.

I never warned them about me.

To say I didn’t know is no excuse.

I didn’t want to know.

I never tried to know.

Even when I did know.

Now I have been convicted to live.

Two other carriers help each other join their friends.

I cannot. I must serve my sentence.

I slowly returned to the shed that serve as my lodging.

I went inside

And locked the door.

Prompt 3

“Your life is important to me”
she said
before she left.

So many words unspoken
and
so many tears uncried.

“Your life is important to me”
she said
before she left.

Her roses continuously bloom
full of color and fragrance.

“Your life is important to me”
she said
before she died.

Bird Watching

(for hour 3—image prompt)

 

Bird Watching

 

She’s gone off the trails

In her bright new dress

Amid reeds and cattails

In search of heron’s nest

 

Traversing crag and rock

Merely watching us wave

Frustrated shock

Watching her scare birds away

The Cashier’s Order

Ten after eight, so late that day.

I grabbed a coffee and rushed to pay.

When the cashier who was always there

Gave a scream and pulled her hair.

“What’s this?” she hissed behind my cup.

“The presidents must all look up!

I’m sorry. You will have to wait.”

“But please! I’m running very late!

It’s just a coffee, ring it in

I’ll put the money in the tin.”

“No you won’t!” the cashier cried.

And even though I tried to hide

The fury boiling in my brain,

The effort caused me so much strain,

My hand reached out of its own will

To pour the coffee in her till.

But my arm bumped hard against a shelf,

I poured the coffee all over myself.

Silence engulfed the small café.

Witnesses found no words to say.

Then the cashier’s eyes looked into mine

So full of mirth, they seemed to shine.

The corners of my mouth turned up

When I saw the empty coffee cup.

Loud laughter bubbled out of me.

The cashier chuckled too in glee.

We laughed and laughed, it had no end.

The cashier had become my friend.

 

 

Stillness

Heart clambers flights of steps
Touring empty hallways
Between each chamber in
The enigmatic maze that is you.
Within, I had once lost sense of direction,
Curling around the flitting green foliage
Only to happen upon another stalemate
My stride to pursue trips
On overturned cobbles
Your road not traveled, overgrown
Rich in your different hues
Though in times past
Only visited by the blind-
Left untended and underappreciated
By those who understood too little of growth
And it is here I became hopelessly lost
And I welcomed it.
You quiet my mind and quicken my soul
Containing my waves like a break wall
Allowing only peace to spill over.
Your keen ear shifts
And I wonder how is it you hear me?
The sounds of my weary gusts
Tearing holes in dry earth
From my anxious torrents.
You silence my thunder and
Disperse the thick clouds of my storms.
I’ve learned from you how to appreciate
Simplicity when I forget to count the tears
With the kaleidoscopic raindrops
That once darkened the veils
Obscuring my sunflower eyes…
…and oh, how you make them bloom.
How I wish to chase your sunsets
And linger within the shadows of your twilight.
My reason to smile-your
Unparalleled character
And the blessed grace of your patience
As you tend to my garden
Sowing clarity as I touch ground
And when I feel the pressure of the winds
It’s a gentle reminder of how
I used to hold the breath
Of twisting thoughts of doubt
Until one day your stillness held it for me.

Screenshots of Memories

Screenshots of Memories

for Erik-Michael Estrada

Inside your truck, 

wind blowing through your hair.

Flossing your teeth

never looked sexier anywhere.

Basketball game watching

Football card collecting

on IG, I’m never expecting.

Mini golf inside Ryan Cabrera’s house,

setting up his washer and dryer.

Being his pool boy I am a huge admirer.

The waves of Malibu crashing beside you.

Rays of sunlight beam 

through your sunglass shades,

allow my hard days to fade.

Appear concise for a moment

it’s nice.

You like a meteor 

pop on social media.

A moment, a little while 

create my happy place

and this fandom smile.

Hour 3 – Overgrown (Image prompt)

Overgrown

A pond with no fish in it

A bridge

To things you may regret

Rust

The city in shambles

Overgrown

Choked by life

Ignored in part by spite

Waiting

Dull yet vibrant.

Gods Smirking

Spend your money
on tithe and lecture
on ink and paper

Debate a billion convinced
with philosophy and ritual
and best-sellers

The best way to mess with
their fragile heads is
to exist in nature
while daring the sanctuary
to tear down itself

Hour Three Prompt Three- Sacred Repetition as Life Repeats By Ingrid Exnerr

Birth, Death and Re-birth

Summer, Spring, Winter and Fall

Each- A Life Cycle

A Movement, a Call!

Birth, Death and Re-birth

The changing of the Seasons

throughout this Life,

we learn the many reasons.

Birth, Death and Re-birth

a return to Life once more-

a repeated pattern of Birth, Death and Re-birth

now and forever more.

Hour 3 Poem3 Half-Marathon 2021 by Ingrid Exner

The Stoop

 

The Stoop

We lived across the street from the school,

but I didn’t collect friends there. My collections

were caterpillars, comic books, special pebbles,

small crumbled shells from the unyielding shores

of Lake Michigan. I had one friend, Ferrah, whose

grandma lived with them in an apartment down the street.

She was a huddling yet fierce lady, wrapped in shawls

and scarves with thick black laced shoes. She taught us things

we didn’t learn in school. A new day starts in the evening, she said,

fierce with the truth, her eyes glinting with fire.

So in three, four hours it will no longer be Monday but Tuesday.

She told us about the devil and the gaping maw of hell.

Maybe she said the gawking mama of hell. Either way,

it was bad. The next year we drifted apart, like clouds

breaking up and reforming. I started going to the Field House

in the schoolyard, where Teach showed me how to weave potholders.

The kids didn’t like me there either. A bunch of girls

crowded up close like a small battalion and asked me

what I got on my report card. All Es I said, because that was true.

You’re lying they said, their battle cry.

If she said she got all Excellents, she got all Excellents,

Teach said. I loved her then. Later, when my mom and I

walked down the street, one of the mothers,

lounging and smoking on the stoop of her bungalow

called out, your daughter is full of baloney.

My mother (though not me) thought it was better

not to reply. I didn’t know what dignity was then.