Hour One-Its a Poem

Congratulations

Its a poem

24 of them actually

Its a time for words

Phrases

Tumble down terror

I shall write

I shall eat

I shall poet

I shall bring these little snippets

Into the world

This cold harsh world

I shall pull it out

I shall put it down

I shall offer it up

I will slap it silly

Slimy, brilliant

Bold and brittle

 

Congratulations

Its a poem

23 more to go

Excited to Begin Again

Here we are, June 26th, 2021!! Time to start and tech monsters already showing up. No matter, we forge ahead. My name is Kathleen Kidder, although I use Katie, Kat, or Kathy online. May it inspire us, refresh us, and deepen our perspective on the world we now live in. Best wishes to all.

Hour One…..

I find myself,

watching….the clock….the door….

listening…for a heartbeat…a breath….

but the silence is defening…

the memory of life, fades

joy, slips from my fingers

love flits

hunger moans,

and in another world you hold loves cold hand.

 

 

So Small

(for hour 1—something ending)

 

So Small

 

Too fragile

Too soon

Softness without structure enough

With hollow hope

With imperfect sigh

Too small

To inflict such sorrow

Priming the Pump

There once was a man from Nantucket

His roses were red, his violets were blue

He went up the hill to fetch a pail of water

And everywhere he went: lambs followed

He had a great fall

He had a great summer

But when he fell off the wall

That was a huge bummer

Poor Yorick!

Like Dreams on Earth

With every passing second

And racing of the clock

I take a quick leak at the back of the house.

Into my bed, I jump once again.

I’m so tired of counting sheep;

And every passing look is caught by abstract images

Scaring me into an eye shut.

Left turn to

Right turn into

The warmth of my own perspiration.

Like the blow to the soft spot of Goliath,

I take a hit from nothingness.

Next thing I realise, are my eyes

Plagued by a bright light.

It was night two seconds ago.

Where am I now?

 

The First Time

For the first time…

I have considered not even starting-

Wait. That is a lie.

At the very least, I should be practicing honesty.

I have thought about not starting a gazillion times in my life.

I am fabulously great at not starting.

Not starting would make an excellent book.

But it would never be read, because it would never be written.

Because I am smitten by not startin.

The hour is here.

Time to get my butt in gear…

But, not for the first time,

I question the legitimacy-

Wonder at the failure rate-

And think I simply won’t pick up my pen and start to write…

But once again, I hear the echoes of my childhood-

Reminding me that I’ve got to be better than them.

Thus, I find myself…

starting again.

The Tender Season

Hour 1 – 2021 Poetry Half Marathon

 

The light rolls in like thunder
on a night when crows rest
nervously on electric wires
just below the tree lines.

I look west – the direction of the sun plummeting into an envelope
of spring vegetation
and early darkness.

As expected, the trees are lined up
like soldiers beyond the clearing,
meeting this fresh spring sunset
in it’s tendrils climbing toward sunshine.

The weather is already teasing us
with daytime warmth,
though the nights are painted on a cool,
sometimes damp tapestry.

Soon, the shoots, sparsely bursting
through gnarled limbs and brush,
will turn into leaves unfurling
in the tender spring sunshine.

Final Boarding Call

There are

hundreds of miles between us.

Fourteen hours flying.

Six hours sleeping,

Three hours worrying,

two hours waiting in a trammeled transit

five steps waiting

three minutes running

and one more step closer, one more moment closer

to the last flight to you and our lives, now boarding.