The Poetry Marathon

11:11

11:11 is a reminder to look inward to create internal peace and embrace the core of my being.

A signal from my ancestors to live in the present with the conviction of their past.

To stay in sync with who I am and not the person the world has molded.

To resemble light and trust the capabilities I possess.

To rest with assurance of my carefully designed spirit.

To be aware of those who do not know themselves.

To connect to the frequency of the earth through meditation.

To see 11:11 as a guide to my current destination.

Hour 3 The Bop: I Don’t Know How To Let You Go

I don’t know how to let you go
How could I when you’re
In everything I see and do
From my waking moments
Until my eyes flutter shut
You even visit me in my dreams

I don’t know how to let you go
I could write pages full of memories
And fill novel after novel
Until there’s no room left
On these dusty shelves
For books I’m too afraid open
Too afraid to read
Too afraid to feel

I don’t know how to let you go
And maybe I don’t have to
In one hand I hold grief
In the other hand, guilt
And now I’m learning to unclench my fingers
So I can cradle your sweet memory.

Walgreen’s Peak

Walgreen’s Peak

 

You’re alone.

Preparation is key.

Training and mental practice

are of utmost importance.

Check equipment.

Pack gear,

alcohol pads, wipes, masks.

Travel light,

avoid accidental contamination.

Picture the placement of necessary items.

Touch only those you’ll take.

Foot and hand placement are critical,

to prevent stumbling,

possible serious injury.

Know how to move,

along which aisles.

Consider every detail.

Life depends on it.

Avoid other risk-takers.

Loud talkers, especially children,

can bring an avalanche.

Move rapidly

during favorable climate conditions.

Stay calm,

prevent hyperventilation, dizziness.

At the summit,

swipe your card,

cleanse it thoroughly,

walk out the door.

Take a moment.

The view is amazing.

It’s all downhill from here.

You’ll return home safely,

memories, tales to tell.

Accolades from fans of

ibuprofen, toilet paper,

salty snacks and ice cream.

 

Bucket list

• tug at God’s pants or dress
• see my echo face to face
• assimilate into nature without being stung or bitten
• unveil the thickest and darkest of skins
• smell each blurry feeling
• ricochet the rain
• taste music

Reading Daniel Defoe in Time of Plague

It starts quietly enough
with a flashing yellow light without malice
Without warning it turns red
eerily bouncing off the puddles
A crossroad
speed up or hit the brakes

“Bring out your dead”

Most speed up
while the power brokers
use a waxed, heavy duty canvas
to cover up as much as possible
while gathering together a raucous chorus
singing together in different keys and scores
with bluster and fearlessness
while we shudder

“Bring out your dead”

Read old musty accounts
search for ancient wisdom
it is all in the old texts
the cacophony drowns out everything
the invisible is confounding
wait it out no matter what

“Bring out your dead”

Hour 3 Prompt 3 Voice (Bop poem)

My husband and I are new to a small town. People are talking.

I watch the world pass me by through the window.

I’m afraid to walk alone yet I can’t stay inside forever.

I would rather hide. I decide to try to wave.

I lift my hand and drop it before anyone notices.

How am I going to fit in when I am too scared to go out?

 

They say my voice is like a child’s and that I’m as quiet

as a church mouse.

 

I am sitting on the front porch

in a chair that is like a hug. My cats are sprawled out nearby.

I struggle to wave as a neighbor passes in a red truck.

Being vulnerable is my least favorite thing.

Across the street, the cat hater is mowing her lawn.

I have seen her scare the gray cat away. I read books to pass the time by,

peering over the top to watch. I’m too far away to eavesdrop.

Unlike my husband, I am not the first one to talk.

 

They say my voice is like a child’s and that I’m as quiet

as a church mouse.

 

I have my notebook in my lap. I might go for a walk later.

Birds and owls fill my ears. For the first time I am relaxed.

The next door neighbor gave my husband cookies. He said she is a homebody like me.

I am writing poems inspired by prompts. I waved to two people today and I am feeling pumped.

In writing, my voice is clear and strong. I’d rather write than speak.

Here, is where you can hear me.

 

They say my voice is like a child’s and that I’m as quiet

as a church mouse.

 

Hour 3: Aikido: a series of haiku for the Art of Peace

Hour 3: Aikido: a series of haiku for The Art of Peace

 

Aikido spirit,

the art of peace in chaos

for a world gone mad

 

Drawing up from earth

energy winds the body

taking out the slack

 

Hold the sword, extend

from your center, hips are square

body makes the cut

 

Spinning the fire

a powerful spirit moves

you beyond violence

 

Grabbing smoke, vanish

to fight is to lose your own

Aikido spirit

3. Haiku

alarmed robins scold
each time I venture outside
fledglings on the ground

Hour 3, Time Bop

There is no anticipation for whatever I await.
There is no toe tapping for time wasted,
nor anxiety for things not accomplished.
Now, on the cusp of my fifties,
I am not central to the lives of my children,
nor pursuing classes, nor checking off many items on many lists.

I have discovered the joy of waiting.

As a young mother, wait time was wasted time.
I could be cleaning, cooking, crafting, sewing, driving, fundraising,
checking off responsibilities and feeling
virtuous for their volume.
As my children grew, waiting meant study time for classes,
jamming learning into every available second.
Unwanted waiting in previous years morphed into exerting my mind,
firing neurons that hadn’t flamed in decades.

I have discovered the joy of waiting.

Now, as I wait, I’m cocooned in my silent, small world,
napping, reading, drawing, writing,
free floating down the rivers of memory and imagination.
Time waiting for others is a gift to myself, filling the well of inner energy,
suspended between the past’s rush and tomorrow’s anticipation.
As time ticks down from the middle of my life, in that space I am free from its restraints.

I have discovered the joy of waiting.

 

H3: Masking

They say the spread can be derailed,

Or at least the effects can be curtailed,

If we keep our distance; stay six feet away

All through the night, all through the day

And are overly careful when we get the mail..

But for so many, it obviously failed…

 

Wearing a mask everywhere I go.

 

You can’t see the smiles hiding from view.

Maybe, in their eyes, they are smiling at you,

But remember to be cautious in everything you do.

Even if they think you might be smiling too.

The virus gets them young, get them old, gets them dead.

The psychological ‘what ifs’ jangle in their head.

And the ones that make it through are damaged ever more.

With malfunctioning hearts and fears by the score.

 

Wearing a mask everywhere I go.

 

I’m tired of this mask and keeping far apart.

It might be better off if I had to lose my heart,

Than to breathe only covert, stinted breaths of hope,

And chance a closer view at what love looks like? Nope!

But wait—is it worth it? I will never know–

Wearing a mask everywhere I go.

 

Sej2020