The Poetry Marathon

Prompt 9, Hour 9 – Returned

Watched, the girl in the room

becomes specimen of strange forthcoming Doom.

 

She has firefly anguish, of having her light dimmed.

Propped into place, there is nothing to be fit or trimmed.

 

In the heat of unwanted conversation, her focus zooms into abyss,

returned only by a snap, fizz and hiss.

 

She drips of lethargy;

undone, by the crass pottage of city energy.

 

Taking to the bottle would be easy;

now she creeps alone in a cottage, breezy.

 

Once the city gossip, she retreats by the treeline.

Breathing unencumbered air – she is saved into time’s slow divine.

 

Protected: 9: Fireflies in a Bottle

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Can’t Be Too Careful

What’s that? Do you see that strange thing –

Over there, by the cottage window –

It looks like a firefly dancing about

and I swear he is wearing – a MASK?

 

I stared. He looked up and explained himself,

“I have babies! I can’t take a chance!”

 

Then he zoomed to the trees and I stood agape.

A firefly, a dance, and a mask?

 

Lesson learned.

Next time,

I won’t ask.

9 – Mom, this year…

She doesn’t take my calls anymore. She “… just doesn’t feel like talking right now.”  ever. Her needs are bigger now than a year ago; her wants are small and mostly focused on ignoring her needs.

I don’t know her anymore, It has been a year, and I don’t know her anymore. That is one of her wants, me not knowing her anymore, me not checking in to make sure she is eating and drinking water, and taking  her medications. She likes the quiet of me not checking. She likes the peace of eating  Malamars for dinner, unquestionably. She likes the absence of me, and this thrills the will hovering otherchildren so much that they brought in a puppy. They feed it, and put it out to potty, and leave it on her lap all day and night…

anything to keep her from picking up the phone and remembering that she loves me.

 

Elizabeth Fellows

6/27/2020, 11am

Hour 9, Prompt 9 Death in Love

 

Death wore a mask of fireflies when he arrived.
At his command, a cloak of butterflies clung to my shoulders,
fluttering, creating an iridescent heat,
an indigo flame,
an all but strange romance.

Death’s love was heat in a bottle,
ocean kisses, smothering and salty –
oxygen deprived, suffocatingly sweet,
I never knew a safe word.

Death proposed on bended knee,
presenting an onyx stone, infused with his blood.
Simply inscribed: Forever.

He always took me dancing.
He always kept his promises,

Together, we were never hungry.

Poem #9 By Ingrid Exner using Prompt #9 “Canoeing, Camping and Fireflies”

Canoeing is magical in the

twilight of night and,

if you stay even  later, a firefly may

come into sight!

 

Fireflies hug tree lines and,

weave in and out

as they dance!

So catching sight of a firefly

is a combination of

luck and great chance.

 

If you stay in your cottage and don’t venture outdoors,

you may never see a firefly

and experience the beauty and its strange lore.

Fireflies are drawn to the heat of the night

and, when it gets cold,

they disappear from sight.

 

So, get out of the cottage and into the night,

To see the fireflies dance!

Oh, what a beautiful sight!

Poem #9 by Ingrid Exner, Half Marathon 2020

The Children

Your face as familiar as my own

stares

across the table full of anger
& certainty

certain that you know

everything

certain that I can’t possibly

understand

my smile infuriates you

affirms, for you, my ignorance

but I do understand

in fact

both your certainty

&

your miscalculation

I remember

this righteous rage

This indestructible invincibility

of

Being 18…19…21…

I am not indifferent

I smile solidarity

Strange Summer

Strange heat.
Firefly light.
I forego my mask
and head into the night

I’m fighting a lethargy
like none I have known.
I walk out past the treeline
to stargaze alone.

Will celestial wonders
bring me back from the brink.
I sip from my bottle
and take time to think.

I feel more alive
in this moment now fleeting
than I have in four months
of social retreating.

I count falling stars
and hold a wish tight.
I’m just grateful for life
on this strange summer night.

Worlds Above – Hour 9

She opened the bottle to let herself go
A flickering light began to glow
The firefly took off into the sky
Zooming through the air up high
She gazed into the distance
The treeline rose to prominence
The world was now below her wings
Yet it was strange
She could not stop looking at the vastness above.

In a dreamy land
Deep in the woods
Small, Dark cottage
Strange and funky
Was the abode of a spirited, crazy old dame

As weird as she was,
Gobbled up crispy hot porridge,
Each day dressed up like no other
And Danced her way to the treeline

So alive was she
Lethargy may be, was not in her dictionary
No one could espy if she was really old
or Just had put up a clumsy mask

At nights,
Fireflies were the entertainment

But Alas!
With a flick of fingers,
they were all bottled up,
heated up

To Be Eaten With The Porridge The Following Morning