The Poetry Marathon

To My Mystery Girl

To the girl that couldn’t wait to get introduced to my family.
Do you realize that you left before that happened but,
Just in time for me to find a brother in depression,
A sister in heartbreak, a father in abandonment
And a mother in loneliness.
So did you know that you could put a spin on the term family?
Or was it just the right time wrong guy?

Did it make sense that I would try to make a move on your best friend?
But let’s paint your friend’s picture with my words.
So maybe you can see her picture clearer.
When you realize that she said I flirted with her, not to her.
Know that this dance with the devil you befriended on the first day of high school.
Was to the sound of her erotic words and took place on my phone screen.
So I kept all this from you because I knew if we had a falling out you wouldn’t have someone to go cry to.
So I kept the skeletons in the closest,
Because you couldn’t stand tall without her as your backbone.
I couldn’t let your best friend break your heart.
So I let her let you break mine so she could heal your cracked.

Does it hurt you knowing that when I had you my words hadn’t developed,
So I would use lines out of movies,
Want to create couple goals like bloopers,
Give you love like scenes where the director had to shout action once,
No cut scenes, no retakes.
Just you and me.
Cheesy I know.
But do you realize that I tried to top all of your ex-boyfriends?
Heard your cries when you were with them,
And promised to give you more nights were your pillow went to bed drier,
And your eyes only cried because you were holding back too much joy.
I wanted to cut through all your layers and go through your insecurities like the slices on your favorite pizza.
Burn the doubts of a future with me.
Introduce you to the movie that was and still could be us.
And maybe you too could see that the sun is also a star.

So to the girl that chose my friend over me but did it behind my back.
I knew all along, what I didn’t do was fight.
Because if you were worth it, you wouldn’t have had to choose between him and me.
I didn’t fight because he was family and you were merely a guest in our lives clinging to WhatsApp calls
And the village walks.
So to the girl that let communications die out,
I hope you’re dying to talk to me, so I get a chance to tell you.
Tell you that I wasn’t hurt, nor was I angry.
I just expected better from you,
You told me girls matured faster than boys.
So tell me, why were the roles reversed,
When it came to you and me.

Prompt 4: Dear Grandma Arlene

Dear Gram: 

Today is your birthday and it's been two years since we have not celebrated with you, physically. Grief has made us stronger, haphazardly. Your Spirit still wanders in and out in the mainframe. Do you feel us? Not a day goes by that we don't think of you. It's in our blood, our life force. 

Do you recall that poem that I did as a tribute to, for you?

What Love makes us become 
After Death, Loss is a beautiful, soulful mystery
Sometimes turbulent 
Other times, a light emerges
A dream tells us
Comforting news

I have my wishes, some sound cliche but most of all, I wish that I had more time with you. 
Understanding how important we needed that time, unless it's timed, our life. 
I'm foolish in that regard. 

Love always,
Melissa

The Night you wished you were Dead

The Night you wished you were Dead

Scary night – the night I called
to know if you’ve won another fight
against solitude: wrestling hard
has been the only ladder
you’ve perfected in life because
life never gave you an option.

That night, I’d have had the feelings
of birds flying in the sky above seas,
for fear I might miss you, the way
I missed the path I followed here.
(You filled her vacuum in my heart)

If not for covid-19 ban on planes,
perhaps, I’d have known that night
how planes are higher birds, but unlike
birds have no feathers and songs.

I love songs: they’ve kept me alive.
Mother, fall in love with songs.
Forget about age: how true love
could be found in a lifeless world.
You can make songs to love.
Sing them aloud. Louder. No sin.

Hour 15 — Where’s Our Plane?

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 15

 

Prompt 15:  There are very few poems about air travel, even though there are a lot about driving, train travel, and subway commuting. Your prompt this hour is to write a poem about a plane trip.

 

Where’s Our Plane?

 

I walked out of the airport gate with Mary,

Stepped onto pavement, no ramp,

no boarding tunnel

To take us to the plane.

 

Straight ahead the smallest red-and-white plane

I had ever seen perched on the sidewalk,

tiny door open, rickety-looking metal stairs

the only way in. Or out.

 

Thankful not to have to get on that thing,

I asked Mary,

Where’s our plane?

A frustrated look, and she gently shoved me forward.

 

Oh.My.God! White-knuckled flyer on a big bird,

this toy plane scared me even worse.

Smaller than a school bus, one aisle, 40 seats.

Really? We’re flying in this?

 

I gingerly sat down in the aisle seat on the left,

Mary sat across the aisle, turned on her phone.

Luckily, my seat partner was friendly. But then

the plane started to back up, swing around, and taxi.

 

I braced myself for crashing on the runway

as we picked up speed for lift off —

but she rose cleanly, like a little bird soaring,

no big drama shudder like a big plane’s lift off.

 

Breathing again, I released my death grip

on the seat in front of me, and tried for cool

and nonchalant. It’s okay, my seat mate sympathized,

my little sister gets scared, too. But she’s only six.

Hour 15, Prompt 15 – Flighty

You have a curious way with flights

without fail 

a laptop is left behind at security

we are too late and 

the flight has to be rescheduled

or the time with the tornado

that made our detour trip impossible

and, somehow, always on the way

to visit your family?

 

I’m sorry,

you can put your earbuds back in now

I’ll stop reminding you…

Oh! And there was that one time

when we were almost sleepless

in the Seattle airport and

I was two seconds away from a meltdown

until a Buddhist monk floated by

 

and I felt everything go sideways

 

just for a second

 

as if his peace pulled it all back

 

darning the frayed edges

 

scattering the anxiety

 

and the frustration

 

replacing it with the joy of flight

 

the peace of weightlessness

 

suddenly

 

They announced your name

looked at each other wide-eyed

we ran down the concourse

at the gate, they let us board

 

And buckling our safety belts

I recall the dense grey clouds

 

by the time we reached altitude

 

there was 

 

nothing 

 

but 

 

blue

Suicide by Plane

Said bye to the Mrs and the girlfriend too

It’s a long haul flight – got to get this right

I’m fighting to sit in Business

But it’s cattle class I’m at.

 

Got my sketchpad and pen

Ever since I was a little’un

I’ve recorded what I could see

and when I couldn’t see what I wanted

I invented it

 

Lights on – seatbelt on extension

squeezed around. As soon as we’re in the air

I’m loosening mine, I’m ignoring the sign

It’s coming off, no-one is going to stop me

Sorry? Yes, of course, thank you, click click

 

I stopped taking them two weeks ago.

Which ones? All of them. Had enough

It’s over, nowhere left to run

It’s been such a long time since anything was fun

 

As it takes off I can feel the pressure in my jaw

I wonder which of my teeth are falling out.

I check to see if I am lucidly dreaming

I’m not

 

Ear pops. Chewing gum furiously

But it doesn’t alleviate the pain

Nothing one can do on a plane –

No pharmacy on top deck to visit

Just grin, just bear, just sit

 

It was when the plane was in sharp

incline that I put 2 and 2 together.

When I reached 7 I sketch as fast as I can

But by now the lights are down

 

I always wanted to go to Bangkok

Didn’t know that bucket lists

were an option for the dead

I excuse myself from the sleeping row

I’m on the aisle, it’s easy to go

 

Suicide by plane –

Hit the heads.

Sketch not finished

Just didn’t reckon on this schedule

14. Plants are as Precious as Seeds

Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer writes — ‘In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us.”

Plants are one our connections to the natural world.

They were the first to teach us how to hustle and flow.

We learn patience, the miraculous gift of life renewed, and balance when we care for plants.

These delicate creatures are extensions of ourselves.

Too much water, like too much love, can spoil us like it can rot the roots.

Too dry, and we must learn how to spring back before it’s too late.

Before we hit the point of no return,

Or make a cause for concern.

Plants in a person’s home are more telling than any art they may have.

One can keep a messy or a clean home quite easily, yet to grow a plant one must be blessed.

It is not left up to chance or fate to care for a plant, it shows they can handle stress.

Caring for a plant shows that one is capable of love.

Romantic is heavily advertised, platonic is nice, but Agape transcends space and time.  

Plants say more about a person than you know.

See if you have what it takes to grow.

Patience, caring, and knowing when to move a plant until it finds its perfect home is a sign of empathy.

Love given when needed sometimes daily or on occasion shows that a person is in touch with true needs.

Plants are as precious as seeds.

They have so many possibilities.

 

 

Prompt 15: “You Ain’t Going Nowhere”

I’m listening to the Byrds
as I nurse my gin and tonic.
The airport din doesn’t
offer the best accoustics for McGuinn and Co,
but the bar I’m sitting in
could be extracted from here and plopped
down on a street in my town,
so I double-check my belongings
and close my eyes a minute
to relax my nerves.

Layovers just add a layer of anxiety that if I relax
too much, I’ll not hear my departure. My gate is within
a good sprint from the bar. I don’t start a tab.

By the time I touch down in Kansas City,
I know I’ll have to beseech a bleary-eyed airport
worker to conjure a taxi. Flyoverville’s hours aren’t
that of the coasts, and I can already see the
bored expression of the taxi driver that eventually will arrive
an hour after I’ve landed.

Now boarding, Denver to Kansas City.

I grab my bag, leave a ten for my drink
and make a jagged run to the gate,
my bag over my shoulder banging behind me.
I’ve just fished out my boarding pass
as the last person in line passes
the metal detector.

After being submitted to the body X-ray
and putting my shoes and watch back on, I
slip my earrings in my jeans pocket,
which I’m sure I’ll forget about and throw in the machine.

I have a mid-plane seat, and am
surprised to see how few passengers are
on the flight. I have a row to myself,
but am little inclined to take all three seats.
Sleeping in public spaces might be my phobia.
I tuck my purse between myself and the window
and turn off the overhead light.

No one looks at me
and I look at no one.

prompt 13 hour 13: just walking

prompt 13 hour 13

just walking

 

my body is soft –

has always preferred reading to running

writing to nearly anything else

but walking calls me

frequently to many spaces where

rivers run faster than I ever could on bended knee

in worship to the body that sustains me

and the body that built a fortress of fat around me

to protect me before I could protect myself.

 

If I wanted to move, I could.

I was just trained to be still –

straining muscles snapping with the longing to run

with muscles so taut as to hum

against the silence of my body.

 

I wanted so desperately to be a dancer –

when I didn’t want to run away –

loving that movement of the body

I secretly wished away.

 

These days I walk.

I walk to the places that call me

to listen to rivers

running faster that I ever could –

dancing over stones

in songs of love to my still feet

still wishing to do more

than just walking.

 

© r. l. elke

 

Half Marathon My Hour 1

I’m running a little behind as life is a thing and wasn’t able to write earlier. But I am getting my writing started now!! And I’m not too far behind. This is my Hour 1 which is Hour 13 of the 24 hours.

My first poem I didn’t end up using the prompt. Just used some random writing thoughts I had saved on my phone. Glad to be able to expand on some of those thoughts finally.

 

The Last Road

The road to hell is paved with good intentions

And I am made of them

I want to share the pure and good parts of me

But even the sun casts shadows

I keep my heart strong

Yet I can see the cracks where my good wasn’t enough

Where my choice hurt more than I knew

My final trip will show all my mistakes

My final path will show that not all good is equal