The Poetry Marathon

She laughs, pauses, then laughs again.

It is infectious, this child’s laughter.

We don’t know what she finds so funny,

but we can’t help but smile at

the pure joy

the innocence

the beauty

the freedom

the trust

the unbridled passion

the discovery

She takes a breath and looks around

Sees the joy in our eyes and on our faces

Sees how her mirth triggers ours in an

endless cycle of humor and happiness.

We look at her and see ourselves before

the cares of the world wore us down.

We are reminded, in that moment, of what it is

to take joy in the wonders of the world.

In that little girl’s laughter, we hear the echoes of

our innocent selves and see, in her, the possibilities

Of a brighter, more beautiful, and joyful future world

And she laughs again.

When your husband grabbed the Seahawks flag from outside your front door
and ran down the street with it, blue and green streaming behind him,

you wept.

Because your team just won, just came back from behind,
and at the last possible moment,

they triumphed.

As I watched you, watching your husband take a lap around the block,
I knew the cancer was growing inside you, that your chances of survival,

were slim.

You knew this, you weren’t only crying with amazement for your team.
You glimpsed the possibility, impossible though it was,
that your body could do something miraculous
in the last moments of the game.

Recipe Poem contributed by Jennifer Faylor

Choose something unrelated to food to create a recipe for––joy, a winter holiday, or an ideal lover, anything goes. Make a list of five “ingredients” for your poem. For example:

Recipe for Averting Disaster 

1/

Momma, I am quarantine in your house
You are far away from this contagion
Writing to you, I want to sprinkle but I douse
I remove skin, no gentle microdermabrasion

Two bridal magazines from the one in my mess
Who I can’t help but let all the way in
Everything pink and white: pink (“white”) skin, white dress
Four hundred years of unacknowledged sin

I need the full hour but I was slow to rise
I forget that first words are hard to recover from
I forget that I need to fully clear my eyes
Of a life’s worth of never joining the scrum

Come to me, muse of the one I no longer choose
I am tired, awake early, and the coffee is slow to brew

We’ve been burned

We’ve been drowned

We’ve been put on trial

For simply being women, but

No flame too hot

No water too deep

No judge and jury

Will ever take away

Our magic.

We only grow stronger

And this is our witching hour

If you were to die today

What would you do? What would you say?

Would you spend it with those you care about?

Or would you prefer to be alone and shut everyone out?

Would you repent for your every mistake ?

Would eat as much as your body can take?

What would your last words be?

What is the last thing you would want to see?

What are your thoughts as your life fades?

Would you think about all the memories you have made?

Would you feel content or would you feel fear?

Would you have no regrets with the time you’ve spent here?

But whenever our lives may cease,

I hope that we have lived and rest in peace.

We approached March like a lamb in gloves.
Coughs of strangers were not yet met
with wary hunted looks of wounded wolves.

We sat, waiting for the droves
out to vote for changes not set
by the paltry, petty and corrupt-to-the-bone Conservatives.

And, we harbored winks, as alewives
in their MAGA hats shook out their pet
necessities, privilege and immoral objectives.

We said nothing but handed them sheaves
we knew they would blight
and we would later count their motives.

Newly minted voters, it pleased me to serve.
Their earnestness and pride fed
my hope for new energy in diverse reserves.

The last hour, a young man in work clothes and dirty sleeves
stood in front of me and seemed to fear his fate,
so rooted to his purpose and dutiful in motives.
Provisional ballot in hand, he took one step to join the doves.

the thick mantle hidden deep beneath our feet

melts bit by bit and fists of molten rock thrust

themselves into already cramped chambers

but my mother always strokes restless

eyelids closed to try stop even

the lightest bit of magma

erupting through one of many

cracks in the earth crust surfacing

as scorching lava from my eyes and mouth

Beth A. Fleisher

Hour 1

Prompt:  Write a poem about an influential woman you know personally.

DIRT AND DIAMONDS

Linda was born in the South, transplanted long ago to Oregon,

living in the country with husband, Bob, and inspiration-cat, Gracie.

Green fields, color-packed planters and free-form flower beds,

a homey house where you can take your shoes off, brew yourself a cup of tea

from dozens of choices, and settle into her living room couch for a chat

about anything from your kids to Black Lives Matter, work place politics to

spirituality, an inspirational book to a heartfelt thank-you letter from

one of her clients at the women’s prison.

Women mired deep in the dirt,

sometimes a hole they dug,

sometimes a hole dug by a friend or a lover.

Locked inside the facility to do groups for a few hours a day,

Linda changes lives, one woman at a time.

Women who don’t trust anyone,

especially not themselves,

women with no hope of a different future.

Or any future.

Until they encounter Linda: a petite 5’4” package of pure optimism,

a warm smile and astute blue eyes,

that ingrained Southern charm that catches you off guard.

Voice soft, inviting you to listen hard as she starts

rebuilding self-confidence and self-esteem,

day by day,

group session by group session,

until you know in your knower that you can do this!

Your past does not dictate your future,

only you

can limit how far you go.

You can discover diamonds in the dirt,

If you just do the work.

It’s okay if you don’t believe at first —

Linda will believe for you,

until you can believe for yourself.

Her influence reaches far,

But her heart reaches farther.

Faceless hue,

Exhausted clouds seemed to show me the way.

There was color on the other side….

Today would be my lucky day.

Dull from my travels, I searched inside for my bold.

Crimson told her story…

She was tired….

She was old.

When you reach your destination,

I want you to think of me.

Colors are beauty

Colors are for the world to see.