The Poetry Marathon

Childhood

1.  You learn to walk
   1. Talk
   2. Run
   3. Play
2. You learn to clean
   1. Wash your face
   2. Wash ALL you body
   3. Wash the dishes
   4. Clean up after the dog
3. You learn to listen
   1. You get an A+
   2. Rewards for doing well
   3. Learn to ride a bike
4. You learn to love
   1. Your dog dies
   2. Friends move
   3. First kiss
5. Childhood is at it’s end
   1. Hold on to memories
   2. Remember to smile
   3. Keep playing, make fun happen
   4. Share Love
6. You get older
   1. Teenage student
      • Remember the memories
   2. College student
      • Remember the memories
   3. Adult student\employee
      • Remember to remember
7. A child is born
   1. Your inner child smiles awake
      • Remember
   2. Your life
   3. Your stories
8. A Lot older/so are the children
   1. Your stories
      • Try to remember
   2. Your Loves
   3. Your life

9. The End??

Walking in Los Angeles

They pop up from the cracks sometimes

The flowers.

Tiny buds, stepped upon by all whose time

Is more important.

They bloom where edges,

People pass

Not noticing the wedges

Of their beauty.

Blooming gardens push their bounds

Where some find mounds

Of dirt appealing.

And those,

I picture for repose

 

4. In Sync

80s music is where it is at and this a fact.

This is not the only thing we have in common. 

Each day we linkup in ways that synchronize serendepity at its best.

Where are we now, two years strong?

Do we still get along?

We still share each other‘s thoughts …

Words merge, thoughts serge.

You can see the image I see at the same time. 

You verbalize it in unison with me.

It’s uncanny how we do this while driving, sightseeing, or daydreaming.

We are still so in sync, no matter our mood.

Anytime there is ever a shadow of a doubt about us we throw it out, like a rain cloud trying to block out the sun or put a blanket over our sunshine.

We find a way to connect on the same line.

The bond is too strong.

Coincidences are too clear, we are on the same plane. 

I am your eyes and you are mine.

 

All rights reserved copyright (c) 2019 Natasha Vanover

Be Still

Be still, mind

Let those thoughts seep out of your porous shell

Don’t take it personally

He had a bad day, perhaps too little sleep

You took the high way, apologized and made peace

Let those thoughts seep out of your porous shell

And bother you no more

Sleep, and breathe.

Scent

At night I lie with your scent close to me

It isn’t from your clothes

Nor the soap you use

But a potent cocktail of skin, linen and air

That clings to you wherever you go

Soak it into my pores

So it may never leave me

As you always have to.

Pets

 

Unconditionally loving

Without record of wrong forgive

Inordinately affectionate

Attentive loyalty give

Excitment upon entering

Bated breath longing when one leaves

Sincerity in appreciation

Simplicity in needs

Instructional as examples and leaders in their duties

These sweet angelic domesticated animals are eximplifications truly

Puppy love

 

6. Dreamwork …

Dreamwork …

While everyone is working I’m waking up from a night of traveling with students running recital’s …choreography… dancing

Mentoring

Greeting

Disciplining 

Teaching 

I am not getting a paycheck; I am working in my dream.

 

All rights reserved copyright (c) 2019 Natasha Vanover

The terror (hour 12, taken from “IT” by Stephen King)

Cat Woman

Hello cat

My but you are a large one

Stalking my steps.

Your spirit dwells within me

I see.

Now I know that I am you,

And you are me.

We are one with eternity,

Cat. Large cat.

Imagine that!

7. Outside my window

Peeking out the window I see a maple tree dressed in burgundy and alexandrite green leaves gently bobbing back-and-forth in the wind.

I see the world through a row of horizontal blinds that outfit the window like a sunglass frame once worn in a popular music video.

Fully formed red wine saturated leaves are contrasted against a mint green garage turned shed facing a dirt road with a gravel path that sounds like the roads  almost a century ago, minus the planes and sirens that can be heard on occasion.

Inside my widow I see a miniature paper replica of a Japanese maple tree, with finger like leaves is in the foreground  juxtaposed against the inside glass window trying to peek through the background of a carefully curated garden with brown mulch weathered by the sun.

It makes me even more anxious to break through the fourth stage, a willing suspension of disbelief, and go outside to pour the black mulch between the green plants blowing in the breeze as well as in between the now dry azaleas trying to mimic the richness of the black soil that it can create.

I’m convinced gardening is a mirror of our minds wild and free, a little struggle goes a long way indeed.

All rights reserved copyright (c) 2019 Natasha Vanover