The Poetry Marathon

Hour 1, Prompt 1: write about a famous woman

Audre Lorde

 

I never knew you,

I don’t know you now.

I don’t know half of what would help me

speak my truth.

You tell me that my silence

will not protect me,

even though I have learned

it’s safer to hold my thoughts within.

 

I recognize, accept, and celebrate

our differences and the similarities

that make us sisters.

I want to be like you: powerful voice,

strength in vision.

You teach me it is not important

if I am afraid,

as long as I speak.

 

I am learning to define myself for myself,

not holding back for the world,

as I speak from the strength

of these words.

Bird Highway

Birds sail past our bedroom

window each morning at daybreak.

Coffee on, we watch from bed.

 

Mallards wing 

           east 

           to Lake Whatcom

           ready to dabble weed and mud.

 

Some swim with ducklings, some alone.

          In our group of two

          we rise

          and fry eggs. 

 

 

 

1 – My History Lives On My Skin

I am struck by the ease with which we can permanently mark ourselves

Pieces of past hastily patched onto my skin in the form of
Ugly makeshift collagen, stitching over my damage
Nourished and replenished with the rest of me as a part of the whole

Needles bleed into incisions.
The open wounds, thirsting for antiseptic, willingly drink the laden ink,
Realizing their mistake a moment too late;
The moment it takes to sterilize – Paralyze – The helpless cells.
They don’t stand a chance against the poison.

Their battle is forever embalmed
Frozen in time by scar tissue

We age.
A spot appears for every story, A crease appears for every original thought,
So that someone could trace your skin as a map of your life
And read the dents and blemishes as easily as they read these words,

If only they would take the time to truly see another person.

To Gaze

She writes gazes in metaphors,

Using pen to paper as conviction,

She throws shade beneath her shades,

Choosing her words precisely,

She cuts into emotional baggage of readers,

before bringing it to life in moving imagery,

Does she ever distract her reader from gazing towards her.

FLAWLESS IMPERFECTION

Hour 1

Flawless Imperfection

 

She worried about her shortcomings

It kept her up at night and often interrupted her day to day

 

What could she do to be, you know, better

Take a class maybe or practice or seek help from others whose similar ideals shined far brighter than her lack luster luminous

 

In her reflection, she could not help but think of the others, the stronger ones in her eyes, those who seemingly had it together, had it all

 

So she watched them, listened to them

The more she studied, the deeper she looked, she would come to find something unexpected, something less than stellar

 

Did a mere blemish make THEM imperfect

Or did it add a uniqueness to their being

 

Was this self doubt and constant scrutiny actually diminishing her glow

 

Upon this awakening, she would swear an allegiance that her flawless imperfections would be enough

 

 

Talk To Me

She doesn’t stand more than five feet tall.
She’s proud of her height, looks older than she is.
Her hair is blond and curly.
She dreams of it dark and tame.

She raises her head to look
straight into my eyes.
“Who are you?”
She asks with excitement.

“Are you a ballerina?
Are you a zookeeper?
Hair dresser or author?”
“Where are you going?”

“Do you have a bunch of friends
you can tell silly jokes?
Can you put your foot behind your head?”
“Do you know how to laugh and smile?”

I look away, no longer meet her eyes.
Her pestering continues, desperate…
“Tell me about school! And all the books you’ve read!”
“What do you love these days?”

I cannot speak, though tears flow free.
Words clot in my throat, choked.
What can I do to not break her heart?
I am so disappointing.

No, no; no and no.
I have no idea.
No, no, not like before.
…What do I love?

I take her hand, lead her to my room.
Show her plants I’ve nurtured, green and growing.
“Wow! You must be proud!
I kill every plant I own.”

I reach far up to grab a basket
crocheted from t-shirts, holding knitted hats.
“That’s a little weird, and cool!
I’m not very patient, I could never.”

She seems happy now, and so am I.
I am still quiet, and cannot answer all her questions.
But I am not an imposter to her.
Only a not-so-grown-up woman,
Still weird and cool and proud.
Still happy.

The School Teacher Prompt 1

The School Teacher

 

The cards came mostly at Christmas 

but sometimes on her birthday 

or random other times of the year.  

At Christmas there were fat, jolly Santas 

or Currier and Ives’ prints reminiscent 

of the school where they had been with her. 

The letters told of their successes, 

frequently clips from newspapers 

called the Weekly Herald or 

The EveryDay News with a picture. 

She’d look at those, sometimes 

touch the face, maybe say, 

“he lost his hair” or “she’s as beautiful 

as her mother.” Sometimes the florist 

would deliver a Poinsettia 

or a vase of cut flowers. 

There was always news 

of their families and maybe 

a family picture. Opened on arrival, 

she read these missives, 

folded the contents back 

into the envelopes 

and rubber-banded the lot 

together with a note to herself 

on top. “Didn’t hear from Martin 

this year or Marian got a new job.”

These were their stories. 

The stories of the people 

whose lives she had helped 

to shape and how they now fit into society. 

 

20.06.27   7 a.m. MDT

Painful Wakeup, Hour 1

Once more under black velvet pinpricked by cosmic light
Once again conduct muses to give voice to this silent night
Once again sculpt from Eris’ random form into ordered lines
Once more into the depths of infinite Mind…

She stirred my depths to percolate what I thought forgotten
Made fresh the parts I thought decayed and rotten
The long-suppressed emotions I had tucked away in hope of my own safety
The demons that I thought no longer chased me

The tidal wave of passion nearly drowning
The loss of my self-discipline astounding

Ever wanting more

Ever wanting more than what I could consume
The way the world would fade away when she was in the room
And soon I lost all sense of self in rabbit-hole of who she was
The razor edge between infatuation and what I thought was love

But flowry words are cheap when gestures of affection unreturned
The fire of physical connection without the mental left both of us burned
And as both of us yearned for more than the other had to offer
I felt my heart inch closer to the slaughter

Lesson learned

Now months have passed and painful throb has faded to a half-forgotten ache
I look back at the times we spent and don’t see them as mistakes
Just another step in both our journeys, maybe in the right direction
For all else she shook what was asleep awake

First Born

Birth should be consensual
Mother, child, ancestors, god
Should be collective rhythm
Not

hospital disruption
Bright lights
Sharp words
Too many people
Still
Can’t stop god
Can’t stop nature
Can’t stop beauty
A miricle

Still

Grace Jean Mutzabaugh_Author and Educator – 1st hour poem kjkidder

You decide

Was it privilege or pride?

Poverty or prosperity?

Let’s look inside and see.

In 1924

Little Grace entered Life’s door.

Tiny father

Tiny mother

Six sisters

Six brothers

All were giants in her eyes.

Her life became bigger, to their surprise

She didn’t like school

Often broke the rules

But she had important goals

A child selling onions, radishes door to door

Many doors slammed on the girl who looked poor

One needed cash

To build her stash

Books and words she treasured

By them, a life she measured

Poetry, novels, all the great ones

Masters of wordplay and puns

She wrote her first story

A twelve-year-old writer! Oh, glory!

So many mouths to feed, poor father

So much love to give, dear mother

Little Grace, raised in the Word,

Longed to teach children what she had heard

And a teacher she became

Students around the world would know her name.

She’d write many more stories in her life and others

For rescuing students who failed,

Parents would offer praise and regale

Grace grew big in the eyes of the learned

They called her to travel, not spurn it

Her route to this honored place

Cost much in the life of Grace

She left her mark on me that remains

Which is why I pen these simple refrains

kjkidder 6/7/2020 9:51 am est