The Poetry Marathon

prompt # 1

Today

procreating a human being

is a process that is magical.

In all mammals, there are only two necessities:

eat and sleep.

Watching Leanna

awake

responding to stimuli

from the startle of ingredients grinding together —

blended.

To the lullaby

of endless cars honking

sirens rushing by.

to her own vocals

expressing her needs.

hungry?

no.

Sleepy?

no.

bored?

could be.

Diaper change?

No.

The moment She looks out the window from a third floor walk up

all is at ease

watching

listening

to the world around her.

She is my own jackie O

Eleanor Roosevelt

she is my own light

guiding me

to continue to follow my dreams.

1 – 3am, 20.8911 N

Maui dark is darker than most. It is all you see is sea dark.

3am Maui dark out of these new windows

is one white light on the horizon dark,

it’s even the pigs must be sleeping dark,

even the fish aren’t swimming dark,

even mynah have nothing to chatter about dark,

even the angriest people are resting dark,

even the most worried are calm dark… maybe.

 

I’ve known landlocked darks

mountain darks

suburb darks

rural darks

city (not so) darks.

They have a close your eyesness about them,

an it’s night time so do nighttime things about them.

They have a hidingness about them

and those are good darks I suppose for some

but this dark, this Maui dark

is putter around the house dark.

It is I don’t miss you this time of morning anymore dark.

It is no one will notice if I cry right now dark.

It is oceans away from anyone else dark.

 

There’s a lot of room to stub your toe

in this kind of dark

in this Maui kind of dark.

There’s even more room

to adjust your eyes, and see.

 

Elizabeth Fellows

6/27/2020, 3am

Hour 1 – Née The Kiss

Tiny flowers crown your mane,

With love, physical or feigned?

Cradled in your love’s embrace

No portent shines from your face.

Tendrils of gold hearts flee from your gown,

Desire speaks without a sound.

Does your delicate hand hold him close?

Or pose as a statue in repose?

Locked inside the gold abyss

Nameless,

known only for

The Kiss

Shirley May

I knew of Shirley after she knew me.

The first time she heard me read. 

A poet with great beauty in her words 

and agape in her heart 

she works more jobs in one week 

than I have in a year. 

She told me, much later, 

that she would always hold an open mic slot open 

for me every month. Just in case. 

Shirley is a stirrer of emotions, 

among the kids she coaches. 

Young Identity 

Not so much her baby, 

as a collective of her equals 

no high piety 

no talking down.

Only raising up. 

A phenomenal woman 

among so many others. 

Writes her heart across the page, 

Sparks fire in the hearts of youth, 

gives light to the stage 

Mind the Children (For Plath)

I do not know her.
Not in the sense 
  “does anyone really know another person,”
But in the sense
  “she lived a tormented life”
  “she was genius”
  “she eviscerated her soul, and turned it into poetry”
  “she was narcissistic”
  “she was severely depressed”
  “she tried to kill herself before”
No, I do not know her.
My heart attempts to envelop her memory.
I know she still resonates 
In a timely and timeless bond
shared by lost poets.
And myself.

Severely depressed, in the bleak and long winter,
she took her life.
We all know this. 
We all have heard
  of her demons
  her struggles
  her glories
  her failings
She wrote them for the whole world to see.

Yet, before she took her life,
  she attended a dinner party
  readied her children for sleep.
  left food in their room for them.
  left the name of their doctor 
   and other information
  she thought would be needed.
 
Yet, before she took her life,
 before sealing the kitchen windows
   and door
  before turning on the gas
  before neatly placing a folded dish towel in the oven,
   (on which to lay her cheek)
  before sticking her head in the oven
  “as far as it could possibly go”
She took care of her children.

Leaving her coat at her friend’s house
  after she and the children went there for dinner
 Not to have them come and stop her - no!
But to come the next day, to mind the children.

The Dusty Room

In a dusty room I waited for their return 

Day in and day out

She was light and hope and love

Always kind and willing to listen

And she – well, she was strength and creation and determination

A stronghold when the light faded, pushing through the dark with optimism

Days, weeks, maybe months passed and I stayed in that dusty little room

I waited so patiently for even a glimpse of them

But they never came

That dusty room became my only companion

Slowly eating me up

Until one day after years of waiting

I stood up and stepped outside

And for the first time in years I saw them

The light from a friend’s smile

The hope of each new day

The love of those who missed me

The strength of leaving that little dusty room

The determination to never return

And the creation.

Ongoing and never ending

Poetry Marathon Submission #1

Life's Hero in a Pandemic, Poetry Submission #1, Ann WJ White

My mother sits in her living room,
polishing grave stones from afar. 
She paces back and forth on worn carpet,
exercising her legs and mind.
The photos she takes from the window
highlight trees falling on the parking lot,
worn people wearing masks, and there on the edge,
a man with a butcher knife yelling that
life isn't fair. Part of the neighborhood
watch, she calls the police, then walks down
four flights, her mask on tightly.
From a distance, she informs him that he 
should step inside, he's forgotten his mask
and she would hate to see him pay
the price of someone else's infection.
It's not what he expects. It's not
the argument he craved. At eighty-four,
she is everyone's grandmother, elderly 
aunt, mother, friend who speaks with a firm
voice that brooks no nonsense.
Speechless, he steps back into his apartment.
She has promised him an audience with the
police who have sped to the rescue at
an apartment full of older people.
They arrive and she returns to her recording
of the past so that others can find they way.

Maybelle

I come by my radical feminism
honestly
as scrupulously as can a
middle-aged guy like me

I come from a long line of
strong women
immigrants
occupation resistors
pogrom survivors
Great Depression
scrappers and savers
who made do
and much more

blue-collar unionists
organizers
women who didn’t back down
office workers
outside-the-homers
when that supposedly
was not ‘the norm’

One, my mother’s aunt
a suffragette
clear sense, fifty years
removed from the fight
to vote
how the battle still raged

honest in that her status
wife of a doctor
afforded her a bit more
leeway
than many peers
she fought, led the charge
when needed

She always conveyed
inordinate sense
not-boastful dignity, pride
granted same to those
probably
far less deserving

instilling in subsequent
generations
clear ideas about forging
one’s own path
with the worth and dignity
of others
always at the forefront

As a teen I was enthralled by
her storytelling
the resolve of others
sharing what she had fought for
occasionally punctuating a
key point with a sharp ‘thump’
of her ever-present cane

it was the 70s
Women’s Lib buzzwords
were of less interest than real
action, in-the-streets
visibility, protests
all still intrigued her
bra-burning bemused her
streets full of people
marching shoulder-to-shoulder
still a turn-on

always reminding her daughters
and my mother
plus shirttail-nephew me too
not to let their guard down
keep fighting
wherever, whenever

I am nearly
fifty years removed from
those days of being awed by
aunt Maybelle
regaled by tales
each fascinating, each with
a solid moral
life lessons
earned not learned

Schooled, I was
in every sense
firsthand, no less
by a woman who had
seen much
did something about it
whenever she could
nudging me in
similar directions

aunt Maybelle
instilled in me a sense of
responsibility
didn’t let me off the hook
just for being a boy
long before
male accountability
was truly fashionable

My kids
daughter, two sons
now grown
never met aunt Maybelle
but I see her in them

involved activists, in their
own. unique ways
apples, they are
from a distant branch of a tree
that won’t let them fall
too far away

and, in fact
helps them to soar

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

#prompt1 #hour1

In Memoriam—Mother

Today I will celebrate a woman who is certainly like no other.

A public-school teacher, business community college instructor,

Blue Bird leader, quintessential 1950’s mom—my late mother.

Although since I would not want to ever wish to equivocate—

About all else, obsessively-compulsively-she was never late!

Ever a lady in the truest sense of a rather old-fashioned word,

She was the perfect partner for my dad with her style and verve.

Also, trained as a classical pianist, she was sure to entertain us,

but insincerity was certainly not in this small-town girl’s nature.

Thus, if I ever tried, I could never measure up to her example,

For above all else, her love and care remained ever ample.

 

Note:  I did not see the assigned prompt when I first posted, but here is a short poem honoring a very memorable woman, my mother. 8:47 CDST

 

 

 

Hello(?)

Hi

I dunno if I am doing this right. I tried to do the facebook

thing and am unable to do it.  So I jumped off so I could

get in before too late. Maybe I will try the FB thing again

here in a few ).

I am not sure what I want to do in the Poetry Marathon .

Learn something? I know very little so there’s lots

of room there.

Meet other people that write poetry too, laugh and crack

up and see if I can make myself useful ? Offer an encouraging

word? I really have not done this before, probably kinda obvious.

Can’t wait to meet everyone and get started though,what do

I do now?:)