The Poetry Marathon

What will I write about? Fleeting recollections?
The leaf motif on the duvet? Shadows created
by the streetlights? They do not leave, they merely
wait till the lights get weary and fall asleep. That
is darkness, heavy and thick with patience
because it has nothing to lose, not even envy.

We were more alive during the war.

What am I to do with you, fake woman
who carried me, blurred face who looked at me,
cracked pot that threw me away? Pointed heels
on the cobblestones shining in the rain, their hard
morning cheeks cleaned by sleep. Afternoons
are for leaving things behind, easily, so many stones
with faces, so many faces looking like stones.

Anna was Anna, but Claire was complicated.

What about the usual moon? Someone noticed
that it was spiraling away, year after year a little
further, each time the breadth of a fingernail,
a marble down an endless slope, useless dilations.
Will the lovers notice? Will the turtles arrive?
Fewer eggs for the fascist gulls, less bigotry.

I could take a drive to the pliant, indifferent sea.

Maimed (Brandy Goodman Poem #2)

Dip the fuse in wax,

Light it and watch it burn.

The flame progresses slowly,

Just waiting for its turn.

Dip the fuse in gasoline,

Light it and get back.

The trail disappears in a flash’

And you’re faced with an attack.

Dip the fuse in nothing,

Light it, it burns at it’s own pace.

It’ll get there when it gets there,

There is no need to race.

Whether it’s a slow burn or a fast burn,

Or something in between,

Your fuse eventually runs out,

And we all know what that means.

A person can only take so much

Before the powder keg we are,

Explodes upon those around us,

Leaving more than just a scar.

The words that will spew from us

At this point in time,

Can never be undone,

We are guilty of this crime.

So when it’s time for you to blow,

Be careful where you are aimed,

Make sure the right people are hit

And no innocents are maimed.

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.