The Poetry Marathon

Special Ed is not for Everyone

Life in Special Education as a Teacher Aide can only be described as expect the unexpected.

It is what happens everyday no day is ever the same.

Kids with special needs, Autism, Down Syndrome and other multiple disabilities are one word unpredictable.

Shoes will fly

hair pulled

punch

kick

spit

bit

groped

you name it, it’ll happen to you.

There is absolutely nothing you can do about it  unless you leave.

Some days life in a classroom is grand.

Kids behave have their medications.

Goals and data are at a reachable level.

Don’t get comfortable the next day

chairs and tables will fly

staff will be dodging them.

The school has the local fire department and EMS on a speed dial

because between children with seizure disorders and staff injuries you’ll get used to the flashing light opportunities.

You get holidays off with pay.

Also great medical and dental benefits you will need.

Welcome to Special Education

where every day becomes a poem.

 

Hour 11: Dying Dreams

Dying Dreams after Tomorrow’s Born Today by Gerry E. Heber

 

A decade and a half ago

Young me turned sweet 16

To celebrate this joyous time

My mom bought me a ring

 

It was hideous and gaudy

Covered side to side in stone

For inspiration, when she chose the thing

She must have used her heart and soul

 

Months passed and yet it gathered dust

Inside a drawer inside a closet

She asked me why I never wore it

I told her that had many causes

 

I told her I was saving it

For something far more special

That I didn’t want to lose

A thing so sentimental

 

She said she didn’t buy it

To collect dead skin and dirt

By seeing my hand bare each day

She was insanely hurt

 

So I told her that I hated it

I told her it was ugly

And I told her she could wear it

If she thought it was so lovely

 

She said she traded her engagement ring

To get me something proper

I said, “The ring you hated

From the man you hated more: my father.”

 

So she took me to the jewelry store

So I could make a trade

Get a ring that I would wear

A simple stone.  A simple shade.

 

I told her that I really

Didn’t want a ring at all

A ring upon my finger

Made my skin begin to crawl

 

It mattered not to her, though

I should show appreciation

I needed something proper

Sweet 16 was an occasion

 

And, in a nutshell, ‘twas my life

It may not sound like torture

Forced to wear the finer things

Oh, the shock and horror

 

But that is not the point

Of me telling you this story

The point is she did what she wanted

Every day, for her, not me

 

I mustn’t wear the clothes I like

I mustn’t wear my hair up

I must learn all the trends and styles

Learn to do my makeup

 

I can’t have a guitar

For she will not support a pipe dream

I mustn’t be so fat

Lose my weight and self esteem

 

I shouldn’t date the boys I like

They were black, or short, or ugly

Shame on me for caring more

About if they would love me

 

I must live my life her way

Regardless how I suffer

The last thing she will be is

The bullied child’s mother

 

My dreams for me meant nothing

Her dreams for me supreme

And so I wore the finer things

And let my insides scream

 

But I’m not 16 anymore

And I have stopped complying

And in the pawn shop ‘cross the town

Her dreams for me are dying

Hour 13–Globular Warming

I’m the glob

being warmed

hour 13 is a bad time

for a bad freezer

that’s stopped making ice

Hour 13 text prompt – Enter the Dingion

Many voices speaking

Only some worth hearing

Peanut gallery and gaggle

As lil gems roll

Across the table

Scent of paint and snacks

Sound of monster attacks

Crinkle wrappers

“Oh snaps!”

Gold and chocolate trading hands

And dwarven rhymes exchanged

A Scottish orc and party play

For rings of yu-an-ti

And at the end I am exhausted

Consistently at odds

With children after school

A DM to would-be Gods

3pm. Poem 13. Funny, Silly, Workadays (a 3 stanza tanka plus 7 syllable line)

3pm. Poem 13.

Funny, Silly, Workadays (a 3 stanza tanka plus 7 syllable line)

Everyday at work
someone throws up, pees, or poops
and it’s usually on me.
Then, they smile their tiny smiles
while I clean it all away

Everyday at work
someone hits, bites or scratches
and it’s usually on me.
Then, we sit nicely and learn
better ways to share feelings.

Everyday at work
someone runs away and hides
and it’s usually from me.
Then, we ollie oxen free
and stand still as tall statues

for a minute and a half.

.

The second-timer’s luck (introduction)

Hello from Alberta, Canada!

Joining for the second half-marathon — also my second time, after 2022 — and hoping that it might still count, although I’m in the hemisphere where the first 12 hours were the ones filled with daylight.

I had originally planned to attempt the full marathon, but this first Saturday of September made other plans at short notice. I’m happy to have gotten home at the top of the second First Hour!

the closet in our bedroom

I have lived in a few houses where my wife and i each had a walk-in closet,

but here in my favorite house we share a closet.

My wife died four months ago, so I no longer share a closet

with her; but I still share one with her clothes.

And the closet is still as stuffed as a fat man’s shorts.

There are places where the hangers have to be tipped just to get the stuck between clothes.

The floor is full of sprawled out dirty clothes whose basket has been set aside for lack of room.

The closet is in the same shape as my brain; lots of remnants of Jean’s life with me–beautiful, irreplaceable, and fear producing items made with love.

 

Rabbit (13)

The guts have the same color as pink taffy

and they look like it when it’s pulled between rollers

at those places where you can watch them make it

my grandpa pulls them out with his hands

there’s a chain wrapped around the thing’s chest

to hold it up and aid in gravity

pulling loose pieces of it down to Earth

bulbous, egg-shaped protrusions

hang from strands between the legs

and I ask my grandpa what those are

ignorant at this point in my life

all our animals were spayed and neutered

he tells me they are the balls

before snatching them free

with a quick finger.

 

 

 

 

we write our own endings

the poem is not the emotion,
the dark mouth swallowing
your yolk-burst heart, it is not
the icy tongue around your neck.

it is a remnant.
we write it down dumbly
the same way we worship
a god who one day will destroy us

with the flick of a wrist,
without a second thought.

 

 

congratulations and thank you for the poems, half marathoners! and good luck to those carrying on. xx.

He Rules the Pen

Hour 13

He Rules the Pen

Is retirement a profession?
When did becoming
a permanent cat bed
become a daily requirement?

He rules the pen.