The Poetry Marathon

Breaking

Being a big boy from the start, my younger brother became the hero

to watch out for the frailer brother with the taunting bravado

gaining a reputation for fixing — liking that reputation a lot.

Built up his savings, to ensure helping his kids when he was gone

but Wall Street came to a precipice; so too his effort to be a full time Grandpa.

his back damaged by years of over-time fixing; his hero image dimmed.

Broken mirrors distort the view

Bro’s Grandsons were rowdy by nature; schools closed; daughter was overwhelmed;

Bro invited the boys to stay for the Summer, parks and back yard projects made it great

for a while.

The stock market is unstable, his investments are tenuous, steep losses are ugly.

How to fix it?

Temporary fixes in vape pens and such

Voices sound like Mom sometimes

driving him to hold on, but . . .

Broken Mirrors Distort

Sells off investments;  and  Grand-kids go back to their Mom and Dad

Spends the money the way Mom would have, if she had ever had a nest-egg.

Revived his yard; new fence for him, another for the struggling neighbor

Backaches prohibit mowing his own; hires neighborhood guys who need the work

Cut my yard, and cut that neighbor’s, and those neighbors too.

But his efforts somehow don’t measure up — hasn’t fixed the world, yet.

Needing a better mirror!

 

by Nancy Ann Smith,  Amherst, Ohio

June 27, 2020   Poetry Marathon

 

 

 

Grow Out

My last color was March 3, 2020–

seventeen weeks ago stylist Lisa

mixed and slathered white roots,

shined and glossed ends, washed

and blew dry ’till smooth, a swinging

golden mane, a date with my husband.

 

Salons are closed due to COVID-19

 

I could color it myself, or I could let

my hair go al naturel. My friend says

“You are going to be so beautiful.” I think,

Aren’t I already? But won’t it make me look

old? I shop for color online…the right shade,

is sold out. I order Apricot Jam. It sits in the

sink cabinet unused. On the path, I check

other women’s grow out. Their’s the same.

 

Salons are open 50%…no blow outs.

 

My stylist will not be back until July,

and even then, they aren’t certain she will.

Two inches of snow on the mountain; a skiff.

Dark baby hair, the little hairs at the temple,

my true color. I decide to take my chances

and schedule with a new stylist–Lauren.

 

Salons are open 50%…masks required.

 

 

Hour 3, Prompt 3 Evil Queen

This body, this ego, this soul –
I’m not sure which, but something is rotten.
Only the Evil Queen knows, but
she’s not making the same mistake twice.
She won’t send the woodsman with his pants around his ankles this time.
I wish she’d just come with her knife,

or maybe a sliver of mirror.

At almost 200 pounds, surrounded by ripe apples and quiet men,
I finally left their table.
Only the Evil Queen knows, but
she’s not sharing her apple cider vinegar spells anymore.
She’s taken every scale, tape measure, and mirror.
She won’t tell us who the fairest is.
We become ever-shrinking violets, our dresses hang.
As scarecrow shaped sirens, we call out for validation –

or maybe a sliver of mirror.

When I peer into my father’s wishing well,
I see now at 30 what I did at 20.
My self-induced lycanthropy, covered in polar bear’s fat and woman’s fear,
has shed. Only the soft white pelt remains.
I am afraid now, and only the Evil Queen knows –
what it’s like to be made of fur and fight, filled with pills, and carved

with a sliver of mirror.

 

 

Home

The foundations are rotten
They weren’t built to withstand
All that they have gathered
Corner cobwebs
Creaking floors
Crumbling walls
Poisonous vines

But they stay there
So comfortable with
The shattered glass
That they don’t heed the calls
Of the architect
Handing them
The blueprints of a better home
They ignore the
Knocks on doors
Telling them that their home is killing them

Black mold clings to the ceilings
The furniture lies in decay
Broken in half
Splinters sticking out
Scratching everything it touches

They’re told to rebuild
To retrain
To rethink
And they refuse
Not because they don’t see the destruction
But because it’s most comfortable

HER CHALLENGE

Hour 3  (The BOP – a marathon writing prompt)

 

HER CHALLENGE

 

She took the challenge, knowing she could not go it alone

The tasks were daunting, the accolades few and far between

Each day posed a question, a problem, an issue to tackle

The mountain of uncertainty grew before her eyes

The puzzle seemed to be adding more pieces of varying size

Nothing seemed to fit though she knew that it must

 

Where could she turn, who could she trust, who had the answers she needed so desperately

She had an idea of who to trust as her muse, her confidant

Yet the opinions of others whom she also valued,

Would alter her direction, change her course

Had she put her eggs in the wrong basket, errored already

The clock of progression slowed with her uncertainty

Decisions were waiting for her green light or no go

She found this lesson in humanity unpleasant, not helpful

Was she really unfit for this new role

 

Where could she turn, who could she trust, who had the answers she needed so desperately

 

She heeded these lessons, though painful and poignant

She continued to listen to those whom she once had revered

She held on to their ideals and opinions, filtering them

Dissecting them, analyzing them for content and value

For each situation, each challenge, for each question posed

And she looked to the heavens and her heart for the answer

 

Where could she turn, who could she trust, who had the answers she needed so desperately

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour 3: Fame

He wanted notoriety.
With keys.
to create doors for himself
to shine and outshine
A new name, even
for the world to remember.
He wants and wants.

But fame is a brittle mistress.
Walk on her on tenterhooks
shattered champagne glass flute
she cuts and cuts him out,
her eye slides on to someone else,
he is desperate
to keep her.
He wants and wants.

There are many answers.
Gold dust, whiskey
drown in his sorrows
despair in his liquid bed
and the echo chamber
of his empty home.
He wants and wants.

I want to hold your hand

Because it’ll mean something if only for a few seconds

It may be risky but it’ll all be worth it when adrenaline consumes you

as you plummet back to the earth at upwards of 80mph.

and when you reach the bottom,

you’ll have no qualms about making out with the soil because at the

end of the day,

peace

love and

understanding is all you have left

USA 2020: a Bop

Only half a year,
and surely we have reached some kind of limit.
How many problems can we handle at one time–
global pandemic that shows no signs of slowing,
systemic racism, another black person shot in the back,
drought, unemployment, hunger, despair!

It’s hard to find solutions
when your president’s a liar,
when the whole dang world is threatened
by his pants that are afire.

In the south, masks are seen as too liberal.
Meanwhile, the president holds a rally in Tulsa,
bringing infected staffers with him.
Science, dear people, could offer solutions,
limiting the spread of the virus and
finding alternatives to the fossil fuels
that fuel our economy, melt the permafrost. Common sense
and compassion are necessary, too.

It’s hard to find solutions
when your president’s a liar,
when the whole dang world is threatened
by his pants that are afire.

We could change the tax laws, so black kids
and poor go to well-funded schools.
We could treat addictions like the illnesses they are.
We could bail out citizens instead of corporations, provide
healthcare to the sick and PPE to essential workers.
We could offer help instead of policing, but

It’s hard to find solutions
when your president’s a liar,
when the whole dang world is threatened
by his pants that are afire.

Okay, an hour isn’t long enough, but here’s a draft, something to work on.

Skay Hour 3 The Bop

Of Progressions

 

A glance that began

A smile that helped

And a wee, token word

Yet now we stand here

Deep in our travels from 

Whence the journey spurred

 

Time is the judging quicksand

 

Comfort zones redefined

And warm fuzzies stay

Why look at adventures

When mundane looks safer? 

Daily chats of groceries

Daycare and pencils

Replace songs and stories

Painting shades of candor

 

Time is the judging quicksand

 

I stand at the end 

Of a warping driveway

Watch the story evolve

Questions loom

Tell me someone

Will it all dissolve?

 

Time is the judging quicksand

Hour 3: Black and Blue

Black and blue

these are for you

the tried and true

will never do

 

black gets blacker

blue gets bluer

I stand where you were

but never been truer

 

a thousand shades of color

we still look for another

we want to call brother

we live on our only mother