The Poetry Marathon

Hour nineteen: Apology: masculinity

 

my masculinity hits my giggle with a shovel & churns it
into mud and gravel. it runs a thick hand down
my stomach & turns the mirror away, cracks open
my bones & sucks out the please and thank you.
when a man grabs me in the club, it is both my ready fists
& my silence after. my masculinity crushes my tear ducts
in its fists & lets them drip onto the floor when I’m alone,
crushed like beer bottle caps. it says that I am always
the shoulder & never the one made small by grief
& collapsed into an embrace. it replaces my spine
with a steel rod, yanks back my hairline & burns
the skirts in the back of my closet. it scrapes
the deadname from my tongue with a sawblade, leaves me
to choke on the blood. it sniffs my cologne for any hint of                                                                            flowers & insists I must smell like tobacco and burnt                                                                                    pinewood, that all growth begins with destruction.

To my deep dearest

Dear grandfather whom I never saw,
I know you are seeing me
writing this letter.
Mom had told so much about you.
She told you were an exceptional father.
With tears tickling in her eyes
she recalls her days with you,
of you taking her for hunting,
gifting her ‘the famous five series’,
getting her married to the man she loved,
Taking all care of her like a Mom,
when I was in her womb.

I really miss you grandpa,
for fate never gave you that one day,
to see me and take me in your arms.
I know you are watching me
from yet another beautiful world,
I know you love me and I love you too.

Yeah,
Mom gave me the book you kept for me.
Love and lots of love!

Gentle Mockery

There goes the wit wit wit of the bird’s call

“Zhe ge dong xi”

Foreign murmurs

The creak of the ceiling fan

Clatters of various keyboards

Breath blown across the surface of hot coffee

A cacophony

Under the sign that has a finger to its lips

Like a gentle mockery

Of pure silence

Prompt 22/Dear Democracy

Dear Democracy

It’s been awhile since anyone – except for Colbert – has said so,
but you are missed.

You have so many well wishers, but
some of them have the wrong visiting hours.
Or, are sitting in attendance for someone who claims to
speak on your behalf and in bald attempt
at harming your good name
to our allies.

I won’t say I wish things could be
as they were;
we both know
the electoral college is an unnecessary holdover
and the doctor says our votes are strong
without this procedural shunt.

Please know that, after your you’re back on your feet,
you may want to take things slowly, but, again, the doctor says
you’re strong, stronger than you know,
and your three branches will, once again, work in accordance,
not defiance of each other and their constituents.

Know, too, that your absence makes our hearts fonder,
and that we know to deserve you is to earn you.

Let us see you rise again, and
all of us will flourish.

Yours,
MN

#?

We take music for granted

Letting notes and rhythms dig deep

Inflating our lungs and raising our shoulders

With music we soar and plummet and float and burn

We feel it in the darkest corners of our vision

It flows through every vein, artery, capillary

My point is this:

We take music for granted

Distance (Poem #18)

I’m millions of miles away

I’m on my own adventure

I’m learning new things

Another language

Things about myself

I’m growing

And yet

At the start and finish

The beginning and end

Of every single day

I can’t help it

I become completely overtaken

My brain dysfunctional

My body immobile

My entire being inactive

I become completely on autopilot

My heart begins to slow down

My pulse almost untraceable

My eyes begin to fill

As if the dam was let open

What am I to do?

It’s as if

My whole life is finally falling into place

Yet my whole life

It means nothing without you

This distance drives me crazy

This distance makes me weak

I feel strong because I have you

yet this distance

I can’t handle this distance

You make me feel alive

You make my life worth living

I know I found my Boaz

My Romeo

My knight in shining armor

I know I found you

I found the one my heart beat matches

The one whose hand fits perfectly in mine

The one who is there in the darkest of times

I found the one my soul longs for

And it’s you

This distance makes us stronger

The distance can’t stay between

You are the one that was made for me

This distance has to leave

19~16

As I travel through life

On a ~twisting~churning~

~Winding~road

I remember…

 

I remember love most of all.

(Security) and ((Warmth))

I believe I’ve always been loved

By almost everyone…

 

I remember pain.

For what childhood is without it?

 

I remember being alone…

Cast off and ignored sometimes.

It never really bothered me.

(I created my own world…)

I could find a million things to do

(((All By Myself)))

Whenever I had to~

 

~And I began to prefer it.

 

I created a thick shell for myself

And I was happy. 🙂

 

I remember when I first looked

Through

a small hole

~and saw You…

Then you saw me!

 

You pursued me~

~And slowly but surely

You chipped away at my shell…

I found refuge and comfort in you.

 

~Confidence~

 

and My Self.

Dear Angelica

Dear Angelica,

If you’re reading this right now then you made it!

Congratulations!!!

I don’t have much to say

Except what you already know

Everything happens for a reason

Just know you’ll learn to love yourself

Your life is a journey

And YOU are meant to be

Born for a reason

For your Soul’s Purpose to fulfill your Life’s Mission

You Are Darn Good

Better than good

You are You

 

Copyright © 2019 by Angelica Stevenson

All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

18 – Another Letter to Dad

Dad, if you were still here, you would die all over again. Your body would implode, like mine is trying to do. It would simply crack apart, like mine is trying to do. We are so much alike, unable to turn on others to ease our  tragicnesses, unwilling to tear someone else’s hair out to sop up the blood pouring from our gapings.

You told me in that dream, we are not like them. I thought I understood what you meant, but now I really know. You and I  are not like them. We do not attack others to make ourselves forget that we are being carried away by wolves who wholly intend to rip us apart, and feed us to their own. We do mpt become the wolves to try and forget the smell of blood in the air is our own, our childrens’, our grandchildrens’, our great grandchildrens’.

I am trying, Dad. I tried, but they are all gone now. There was a gun. There were two shots. They are all gone now.

I wish you were still here.

I’m so glad you aren’t.

2019 – Eighteen – Prompt 22, Hour 18 – Letter to Me Before I Was a Poet

Do you recall,
or not so much,
when you could speak
without rhythm?

When all your words
were simple
and you were happy
with ’em?

They suited
all your wants
and needs
and no one
thought
much of ’em.

And you could
speak,
then go to bed,
and dream without
suspicion?

Then one day,
you thought in rhyme
and wrote it down
and spoke aloud
and all the heavens
opened up
and poems fluttered down.

Then simple speech
was not enough.
You felt each thought
was coarse and rough
and so you smoothed
them, felt the tough
ones soften to your touch.

Sonnets came,
sestinas too.
Dividing them,
there held like glue
the free-form
words
and then you knew
you’d never sleep again.

So when the chance came,
MARATHON!
To wear your mind out,
wear it gone,
for just a little,
dawn to dawn,
you signed up,
COUNT ME IN!

Now here you are
dreaming of dreams
suspicious of them,
so it seems,
but missing where
adventure teems
and steams
to flavor all your sleep.

But you can’t sleep,
you said you’d write
from dawn to dawn,
all through the night,
and so this letter’s yours
alright,
so you can keep your word.

Tomorrow, after we’ve had
our sleep,
and eaten more than cheese
and meat,
and had a beer
and sat outside,
no poet then
we’ll be.

Thankful for the poetry
more thankful
for the rest
we’ll say,
“We’ll please not do this again.”

But I know you,
and you know me,
and come next year
we’ll both agree
there’s nowhere else we’d
rather be
than here,
Oh Marathon!

Love,
Your Pal,
Morgan