The Poetry Marathon

In/out of the closet8pm

written for a friend
TW :: Sexual matters

There’s a place where
I keep all of my secrets
where no one sees them
unless I invite them in

I don’t just trust blindly anymore
It’s taken me a long time
to cultivate the courage
to be able to share any
of my secrets with you

I have a closet where
I keep everything that society
considers naughty where I store
all of the things that
society would frown upon

Like the fact that I like to indulge in
intimate relations with a guy friend
that is probably 15 years younger than
I am.

And the fact that I am human, female
and I look at porn. It doesn’t make me
a bad person-
And I refuse to feel that way

Just someone trying to find their
way through the aftermath of
being considered a sexual object
by older men for most of their
childhood.

In my closet are many things good and bad
so many secrets that I don’t know if I
can ever truly share without being
looked down on

like the fact that I was in a submissive
relationship with a man that controlled me
because sometimes, that was the only way
I could respond

Like the years that I was a whore
because that was the only way that I
could relate to men-
It’s not the only way, and honestly it’s
a trite way to cope.

I have a closet that, I’m not sure anyone
else needs to open it
Might not like what you find in there

Hour 13: My Super Power

I have many wonderful talents, abilities, skills

I can get a group of crazy seven year-olds to be quiet for like a minute and a half, just long enough to take roll call

I can solve any imaginary hurt with my box of band-aids

I can ask probing questions- “Why is there a frog in your desk?”

I can give thoughtful advice- “We don’t lick our friends’ knees.”

I can give thoughtful, lifelong advice- “We don’t lick anyone’s knees.”

I can read upside down, write upside down, and if needed I can hold a small child upside down

I can tell what the kid in the 3rd row is about to do to the kid in the 2nd row without even turning around

I can stop an insurrection with just one look

I can sing endless verses of Down By the Bay

I can create anything out of toilet paper tubes, Elmer’s glue and ten pounds of glitter

I can eat faster than any animal on earth and hold my bladder for days

I can negotiate parent conferences, admin observations, and school performances with finesse

I can make up stories about buying 68 watermelons, because everyone buys 68 watermelons

I can spend my nights and weekends grading papers, preparing lessons, and picking up extra supplies

I can live off coffee, chocolate, and sunshine

I can do this all with a smile

Because I teach, that’s my super power

Hour Eleven: Lines–black on white on white

Half an egg for a face,

two stuffed olives for eyes,

An M, a W, and a slash for lips

An eyebrow curves, dives, dips,

and becomes a nose,

two slashes for brows, and

seven sticks, four curved,

suggest hair, a woman,

one half her face a bird’s wing,

the beak at her third eye,

three eyes, half a bird,

half a woman,

black lines on a white background,

simply suggestive,

line drawing–

Picasso.

 

hour 12: the aces

 

fire and flame

shooting through smoke

they’re kicking ass and so am i

here we are at the court

i’m watching listening and paying attention now

things i’ve always struggled with

and there’s resentment there,

but when the beauty in the arena is this loud

i can’t help but dance

More Than a Theatre Girl

One show, two shows
Three shows, four
Being a theatre girl
Is what I am, what I love

Five shows, six shows
Seven shows, more
If I’m not doing theatre
Am I really worthwhile?

Eight shows, nine shows
Ten shows…

STOP

Breathe

Find yourself again
The parts beyond the theatre
The parts you loved before
The parts you have forgotten

You are a theatre girl, yes
But you are so much more

Prompt Thirteen – Aye, Write!

Prompt Thirteen – Text Prompt

Describe your profession through a funny/humorous poem.

 

Aye, Write!

 

A Fighter?

No no, a writer. I write.

You what?

I write, you know? Words? Pens? Paper?

Well, I never. You write for a living?

Not much of a living out of it, but yes, I write.

So, is your handwriting great then?

No no, I write stories, you know.

Oh aye, sure you do. Tell me another one.

Truly, I write poems, stories, articles, novels.

And you do this… because…?

Well, because I want to.

Why?

Oh hell, because that’s what I do.

Like a dancer dances, a singer sings, a doctor…

A doctor cures people. What do you do?

 

I can cure people too.

My words can shock you out of stupor.

They can turn black and white into colour.

They can thrill the chill ill out of you.

They can make you weep at the beauty of the wild.

Or notice the innocence of a child.

They can turn the ignorant into a saint.

We are the ones who can paint

new futures for mankind,

but not leave history behind.

 

Come to me when you’re lonely and sad,

I promise I’ll have words to heal.

Bring your bitter heart to me,

I can help to make it feel.

 

But, what if they don’t?

What if I like my phone better

than your poetry or your letter?

 

Well, then I will have to eat my words, wont I?

 

Marilyn’s Dirty Laundry

My mother’s closet was filled with silk.
When she was gone,

I hid there

to sleep
with her perfume.

Mrs. James’ Trousers

There they were:
Long.
Black and white.
Pin-striped.
On long legs.
With Mrs. James at the top of them

Mrs. James of the Elvis tracks in mock exams.
Mrs. James of the hyenas in the school Christmas play.
Mrs. James of the shrine to Tim Henman in the cupboard.

And my friend, the tallest in the class.

“Well you can play me!”
“Me, Mrs. James?!”
“Yes, you can play me
In assembly!
I’m writing a play”

Mrs. James loves to write plays.

“You can play me!”

Jenny shoots me a desperate glance.
She’s eleven.

“In fact…”

Oh no.

“In fact, Jen,
You’re so tall…”

Oh no.

“I bet you could wear my trousers!”

On the playground,
Later.

“I have to wear her trousers.
They’re long!
They’re black and white
Pin-striped.”

It’s next week.
Assembly.
I’m sitting in class
(on set).

Jenny’s front and centre.
In Mrs. James’ trousers.
Long,
Black and white,
Pin-striped,
Absolutely unmissable.
Unforgettable.

 

A true story. (Changed names).

Cold-Blooded Heart Warmers

(or, The Menagerie pt. 3)

 

It started with a cornsnake

named for a park back in Ashland

who escaped his collapsed tank and

vanished into the unknown.

Quite a few nights were spent lining the kitchen walls with flour

In hopes of finding a trace of Lythian,

Though no hint of him dead or living ever surfaced

 

The reptile life nabbed me quickly,

One moment pondering the archaic looking creature once labeled extinct

The next, I’m rearranging tank space with what little I have to spare.

 

Cornsnake, crestie, and python to start,

And then the dragons: the desert oranges my father brough home,

And the water lizard, Orchid green and just as fragile from the home

He’d been neglected at beforehand.

 

The leos top the reptiles off, with Blaze playing Mama hen;

She and Sundew spend their days piled atop each other,

In patient wait for little Ruby White to get large enough to join them.

 

Speaking of which, does anyone have any large tanks available?

 

(Hour 13)

Picture of Their First Day of Preschool

Blonde ringlets frame her heart-shaped face,

shining hair pulled off her face with a pink bow.

Her bright blue eyes are filled with laughter,

big smile swelling her cheeks.

 

His blonde hair cut close with a fringe

above his proud blue eyes. He is bent slightly

at the knee to reach her little shoulders and

wrap his arm around them in loving protection.

 

The preschoolers barely outsize their backpacks

on this first day of school. They are overjoyed

to carry their awkward bundles filled with

new school supplies.

 

They are ready to learn, to play, to make

new friends. They are ready to take their first

steps out of babyhood, their first steps

out into the world.

 

Letting them go tugs at my heartstrings

like an instrument out of tune. I want to freeze

this moment, this image in time,

forever.