The Poetry Marathon

01 – Endings without Goodbyes 

What can you do when there is no farewell?

The opportunity lost, slipped away with the 

Hustle and bustle and musts

A final box packed and placed on the truck

And then on to the next

But the past not forgot

 

Within the walls, childhoods lost

Echoes of laughter and tears

A sister and brother playing and fighting

And really aren’t those the same?

A family bled dry, on the brink of ruin

Searching for a way to stay whole

 

And so on to the next, they say

We need a fresh start

And to a new state we are headed

They hand over the keys and

It happens so fast

An old friend left in the dust

 

What do you do when you miss it so much?

The warmth of the wood and the light filtering in

Through the living room window

Inviting and familiar and safe

Where you rocked and rolled

To your first earthquake in 1992

 

And the yard in the back with your peach tree 

Bushes of rosemary and rose

And expanse of grass where there used to be play

Where you’d run wildly screaming and giggling

Or play in a pool set up for the summer

Pick up thorns in your feet along the way

 

You visit this place in your memories or dreams

And maybe even sometimes drive by

Know in your heart the feelings are real

Frozen in time somewhere and somehow

And perhaps your never said goodbye

Because this home still lives in your heart

Stop (Prompt 1) 2021

I was never sure when to get off,
First i was in Norway and was struck by how strong and caring it was,
But I felt bored, was uncomfortable ans surprised to not be moving,
Then I drifted through Canada – never actually stopping, felt too stunned by leaving Norway.
Moving on I passed to Israel, there I spoke like friends for months before I actually got off,
When I did it was difficult as I knew her all too well,
She pushed me on snd vanished behind me and the trip continued on ahead.
Some stops were so minor and short they don’t even count, others I yearned for but didn’t hold me back, always compelled to keep on going, if I didn’t stop for long I couldn’t get old.
Back in London after much getting around,
Yet Moscow came and stopped in my life,
Felt like Norway again,
Was so impressed, excited and yet insecure and harsh,
One day Moscow had enough, and it’s turned cold and was no longer a place to stay,
Poland came next in an overlapping stop, rhyming names which everyone forgot.
Something inside me made it hard to stay, anywhere at all, and clung inside my moving place,
Pushing at the place I was, always thinking of the next place to go, rarely appreciating where I was, so never really being anywhere at all,
Later constructing with photos memories which otherwise seem like someone else’s,
Cursing myself to trudge on,
Then taking myself far away, Armenia in America supposedly a permanent place to stay,
Yet how volatile that was and restricted-depressed I couldn’t really stay,
How it felt at those times how badly my stop fit me, yet nowhere worked so a vagabond I went,
I left Armenia afraid, like I almost escaped and then needed to move for some time,
Like a cruise ship with a day stop I went surveying traveling a few new bays,
Trying at last to reflect inside,
Like seeing the world and the outside.
I stayed again in America, first fleeting, uncommitted and yet finally trying to remain,
I don’t think that being in one place,
Is the ultimate goal in this transitory life,
Yet being forced to run and never slow down,
Is exhausting
And even the colors blur from motion,
I learned so much from the places I went,
Humbled in awe and learning to remain,
Knowing that even this longest journey must end.

Of Peace and of Rest

Of Peace and of Rest

Peace, the desire of ages

Rest, the quest for it is unending

Does one who has peace have rest?

Or, is it rest that gives peace?

Peace I pray for

Rest I seek

For me and my household

For all generations to come of me

For, as curses reach far

To generations yet unborn

So do prayers reach far

To generations unborn

And, my prayer is

Peace that knows no end

End Game

Poem One

End Game

 

Is it my imagination?

Is it like this for everyone?

My ten year old me timidly not seeing much else.

But the thirteen year old is elbowing for space – not quite as innocent.

 

Life hasn’t been linear.

My ten year old had no doubt, was confident.

My twenty year old had a lot more uncertainty, had to consider where I fit in, and realized that

I was not floating on a preordained template. Had to plan and decide.

The certainty of uncertainty hit home.

 

Looking back I realize how privileged and cared for I was.

So sure that the future had a plan for me.

 

Grappling, I realized I needed to jump templates from cared for child who didn’t need to make decisions to a struggling student whose grasp of quadratic equations defined who I was to a being with choice. Who do I want to be?

 

The answer came in a flash of light and a combination of circumstances, the words of a teacher and a bum on the street.

 

Family and career engulphed the new me. And like every other phase it moved on to the next undefined stage as one more curtain rose and fell in my play.

 

I planned three surgeries and tumbled into another during this endemic pandemic that at times seems bathed in pathetic. Is anything different as I see ugly roar like a lion all over the globe?

 

My onionskin self has so many me’s to consider the new world and where I fit in.

Friends and acquaintances are falling like trees in a cyclone. Is this a weird combination of circumstance or is it age?

 

I guess I’ll need to figure that out.

 

 

 

1 Favorite color

1 favorite color

1 favorite color

new soft green gently nods
food is old and risky

picture window displays
our mother’s green rebirth

green offers infinity
artists struggle to find

as wounds go wrong green
whispers death still waits

aging me sorts crayons
always looking for my shade

blue sky smiles a yellow sun
helping creatures find

green hope and redemption

Phoenix Unfinished

Hope rose from embers,

shook the ashes from its wings,

to challenge defeat.

2021 #1 – Lost Love

What once was, has gone.
Only hopelessness remains.

Will it ever be found,
no one knows.

Seems like a lifetime ago
and yet yesterday still.

How sweet it was
and bitter now.

The Love of you,
the Love for you.

 

The Music Said I Could (1/2 – Hour 2)

Michellia Wilson
Poetry Marathon 2021 – Hour 2 of 12

THE MUSIC SAID I COULD

The knurled round knob proved to be easier to turn than I imagined.
The dial with a red pointer oscillating left, then right…
and then it happened…
The sadness I had bottled up for weeks ignited when the drum riffs began…
Over old scratchy speakers…
Old music player..
Old music,
Old person listening…
I am one of those people who will make it necessary to ban weapons from all the mentally ill…
’cause those songs create my own insane brand of checks and balances;
the outcome is always –
I am less than equal.
In an equally insane society, the weak must be eradicated.
Ask the painfully thin humans
Issues blue striped pajamas,
They we’re deemed less than…
I am ready. The music told me so.

Just Getting Started #1

I see this ending before it starts.

My thumb hurts already.

Probably need surgery

find out next week.

Don’t worry, I’m in it for 12 hours.

I’m here to write and discover.

This is such a wonderful experience.

I don’t even tell my family,

less chance they will find something for me to do.

My husband and son are working (carpenters)

My daughter is house and dog sitting

So I am home with our cat,

but my muse is missing.

Silver Day

Goes on by silver days of the years

Where birds do fly hummingbirds  across the sky into the air of clouds.

Grand union where heaven with its dwellings places they triggle the alarms of each gates with there wings of Ebony.

Humble gliding like an ant on the ground crawling and hurdling together around the garden.

Piano sounds of whistling this beautiful tone.

They Sounders into your ears amazing silver days and midnights of nocturnal owls to see.