The Poetry Marathon

2023 Full Marathon: Hour 13

The boy who gave me cloth oragami hearts

and engraved sheet music and silk black roses

didn’t last though he put in all the right moves.

He was here for the lesson that you should really

appreciate what you’ve got while you have it.

 

Then there was the one who brought me postcards

from all around the world and tried to write all

the things he thought I needed to hear – that was

my fault I wasn’t in the right place for that kind of

genuine sweetness. And now he’s got someone who

can recipricate and keep better track of memories.

 

There were some poets resting at the bottom oft

heir ink wells making skeletons out of nothing and

storms out of a single cloud. They all had potential

to be incredible – but took the craft too far for their

own good. And like can find like but it’s truly opposites

that attract when it comes to the heart.

 

And now I know what my voice sounds like – I’m not

afraid to speak and my honey, he makes mistakes

so do I, but we always come back from them with

the help of each other. Plus he can always make me

laugh at the end of days that have me in tears.

 

There’s something to be said for the way we carry

trinkets through our lives and the mementos of the

chapters that just didn’t need to expand –

but the silk flowers, the postcards, the poetry

 

I still have it all.

 

-M. Rene’

Fairytales

I have come to learn
Fairytales don’t mean a thing
To a broken heart

Teaching Babies (acrostic) – Hour 13, Prompt 13

The best time in my life

Everyday, eight hours wide

All my friends are tiny tots

Children who thrive in this spot

Happy, babbling, funny babies

I sometimes think, a little crazy

New eyes and ears, laughter, tears

Good to cuddle, tickle ears

Boys and girls, eyes wide

All to learn a song, or hide

Behind a shelf, or myself

I pretend not to see

Everything quiets, gee

Shh, this baby’s fast asleep.

 

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023

Data Science

I watch the numbers flip and fly
imagining why they need to know.

I show the thinkers how to think
through fields and rows of things.

I take it apart, and re-assemble
so that it means something more

than just letters and numbers
in fields on a page.

Hour Thirteen: Humourous Poem Describing Your Profession

open shop
wait for client
ping!
a message
they’re running late
smile
smile
they’ll be billed anyway
healers are a precious commodity

Student or Teacher

People used to tell me
to my face
that I am a saint.

In truth,
I am a teacher.
A teacher who learned early on
to hide lavendar throughout the classroom
to counteract farts and puberty sweat smells.
Yes, a teacher who learned early on
to stay on the good side of the custodian
to counteract bodily functions and feats of inexplicable behavior.

In one day, yes, just one day,
I single handedly traced the owner of a pair of boots
that one of my students had in his backpack.
He had his own boots in his locker.
His shoes, worn through and soaking wet with snow on his feet.
The owner of the boots did not go to the same school.
Imploring and empowering a bus driver with a midday run,
The boots found their rightful owner before lunch recess.

The student is working in a study carrel asks for help
As we work through the problem, I notice purple goop on his head
“Tell me about this.” I ask as I gently touch the goo.
A large patch of his hair adheres to my fingers.
He quickly tells me in one breath that he accidentally and in no way on purpose cut his hair.
He doesn’t want me to be mad, so he glued his hair back on his head.
Dumbfounded, all I can think is where was I? How did I miss this?

Oh, no.
Barely started, we are by no means done.
The student is slow to dress for a snowy recess.
He is not in good humor, having been reminded to wear his boots outside.
The battle for independence is sometimes slow
and in this case, too slow for the other children.
To prevent overheating, I left the student in the classroom and led the other students out.
When I returned, the students cheeks were packed full with something.
“What do you have in your mouth?” I ask sternly.
The student takes pains to cover his mouth before answering “Nothing.”
I look down and notice the now empty cookie tin on the floor.
“No cookies for snack.” I say in dismay.
A whole package of cookies,
In mere minutes.

He heads out to play.
There’s no sense in punishing both of us.
I’m no saint.

Hour 13 – Twenty Roadrunners

Twenty Roadrunners

(Based on the poem “Twenty Froggies” by George Cooper)

Twenty roadrunners went to school
Where the desert heat is cruel
Twenty feather coats so trim
Twenty tails so straight and prim

“We are responsible,” said they.
“Respectful and safe in every way;
This is what we know is true
At our school of Pleasant View.”

All the teachers, kind but firm
Gave the chicks a lot to learn
Taught them how to read and write
And found their students very bright

Taught them math and science too
Were proud of how the small chicks grew
Saw them leave for bigger things
Roadrunners now could spread their wings

*
*
*
*
The prompt made me think of the poem Twenty Froggies. I decided to borrow that format, but write it about my school Pleasant View with our mascot the Roadrunners.
*
Here’s a link to the original poem: https://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=3358

Little Poetry Projects, Uneven Debts

Our crooked mail was bleeding surreptitiously
through its envelope.
Upon opening – gingerly – the crusted folds
(obviously, the delivery had reinvigorated
the wound), we sighed with relief
even as the paper therein snarled
its intent to drain us of
our combined incomes with bold-formatted and triple-underlined
claims that sounded like they were generated by
a program, not written by a cogent and reasonable
human being.

Foregone conclusions in mail extortion
being one of the signifiers in the
fall of the Roman Empire, we knew,
in a dead second it was either us or it.
Wordlessly, Ron and I danced the mail
to the sink, cornering it with the
mercy it had shown us and we drowned it
to a pulp, then finished it off
with the garbage disposal.

Just to be precariously indulgent,
I bleach bombed the drain and plugged it
with the stopper. Nothing must return
to infect our other correspondence.
We count our guest appearances
in civil dinners, and consider ourselves
pen pals with battle scars.

We are victors.
We demolish the undead.

Gentlewoman, Hour Thirteen

Gentlewoman

In former ages I would have been discreetly labeled a gentlewoman,
that creature of the growing middle class that could not be defined,
dabbling in domestic arts and essentially unoccupied
but for the supervision of the education of my children in the delicate arts
of how to be essentially unoccupied gentlemen and gentlewomen.

In reality, I am gardener, maid, cook, housekeeper, arborist,
chauffeur, medic, recycler, repurposer, thrifter, hauler, economist,
budgeter, secretary, clerk, cleric, chronicler, photographer, author,
biographer, daycare specialist, and all around domestic engineer,
an essentially unoccupied housewife.

Hour 4 Slowly Catching Up

Gotta really focus for awhile now!

Hour 4

 

We are states always and some days I wish farther

Most friendships end either explosively or slow

And yet I was able to fade quickly 

And it’s not really you

Nor is it really me

But it’s us

And for us I was changing in a way that you weren’t

And I realized that with my changes I was tired

Tired of the same conversations 

Tired of being ignored

Tired of being first and last on your list of friends

Tired of you not getting it

I haven’t hated you

But I don’t love you anymore

And that might be the kindest thing I can do for you now