The Poetry Marathon

Prologue – Hour 12

Orange flowers throw sparks in the night
Making silhouettes of Twolegs huddled there.
White lights appear, roar past
On a Thunderpath,

At the edge, a cat moved,
More cats followed one by one,
sniffed the bitter air
With the lips curled.

A large tom padded forward
flames lit up black-and-white fur  on his powerful shoulders.
His long tail straight up
Sending a message of courage to his Clan.

This was a strange place.

A gray queen flickered her tail uneasily.
She pulled her kids towards her and sheltered it
A black tompushed his way forward, limping heavily on a twisted paw
Anxious yowls rose from some of the cats

The cry alerted the Twoloegs around the fire.

At once the cats fell silent, crouching lower
A missile flew over their heads
Exploded in a burst of thorn-sharp pieces
On the Thunderpath behind.

Ashfoot flinshed as a shard grazed her shoulder
but stayed silent, curling her body
around her terrified kit.
I fear for our safety here.

12 – erasure( p143- the jane austen book club)

while he remembered,

a secret,

a conversation

a curtain breathed,

in and out,

a sudden fear

god told stories,

in the sky,

nightmares.

Erasure of Poppy’s

From “Rip Van Winkle” page 3

THE SECRET TO BLISS

 

The great error in composition

Was an aversion to all profitable labor.

Not from the want of perseverance;

For he would fish all day,

Carry a fowling piece on his shoulders for hours.

He would never refuse to assist a neighbor,

And was ready to attend to anybody’s business

But his own.

His children were ragged and wild.

He, however was one of those happy mortals;

Who take the world easy and

Whistled life away

In perfect contentment.

 

 

poetry marathon 2019 final prompt

 

Home

His eyes, his hoodie,
even the barbell hugging his eyebrow,

Her jacket, her hair,
the purse that carried her,

Each item the same neutral hue,
her favorite military green
flowing into every aspect of her life

Her favorite scrubs, a comfort in her work,
her scribbled ramblings in a
sketchbook in the drawer,
his pajama pants, that she loved to wear to bed, all shared the natural shade
which was like home to her.

Right down to the weathered chair
she salvaged from a thrift store, carried home
on her back, walked 8 blocks alone
and looking like a fool.

It now rested in a dimly lit corner
perfectly tucked away, so that in her bedroom,
her new favorite place to read matched herself-

a small, green, unassuming piece of furniture,
often overlooked, but
deeply loved
by the right people.

Dao (2019 Poem 9)

Meditation in taupe
Sand dunes undulate unto eternity
Under skies cerulean blue

Anxious thoughts fly countless loops
Touch and go on fertile earth
TIL fuel runs low

Breathe in peace
Watch them go
No more to be done

Private Morning

Putting moonbeams in my coffee
To make it taste sweet
I step into the fog on the porch
The whole world wrapped in a collective hush

Even from this distance
I can smell the fir trees
Their thick aroma combining
With my dark liquid and clandestine cigarette

I add to the mist surrounding me
As the smoke slips from my lungs
The cold concrete bites my bare feet
Punishment for my quiet sin

I hear the clatter of a canteen on the dock
Followed by a shout, “Damn thing!”
Just an old man heading out for the day
Just as he has done every day

I turn back to the house
Rest my cup on the shelf
Flick ash into the cut glass receptacle
That I took from my grandfather’s house when he died

This quiet morning
Before the day begins
Is my greatest joy
My private ecstacy

Grow

Infinite potential takes a root
In dark rich soil, it uncurls
Pushing at the barriers of the known
Emerging to bask in streams of afternoon light
The first breath of transformation

As the earth it was born from circles
The source that nurtures it
The seedling grows

From tender green
To tremendous grown

Towering amidst mountains
Believing it has achieved
All that a seed could hope for

Severed at the base
Rings exposed
Lifetimes worth of reaching
Cut down

There is nothing more to hope for
No branches to stretch,
No leaves to grow
The tree despairs

Processed and bleached
Inked and bound
Transformed again

Infinite potential waiting to be found
To grow thoughts
To stretch minds

Erasure: “Why Latinx Writers Should Decenter the Narratives That Have Been Weaponized Against Us” –> Latinx Writers US

 

connoisseur, listen to it all

close friends

smarter eyes

rare Latinx writers

drug war or violence

reinforce stereotypes.

the rejection felt

cut down

Do I have a moral obligation to do anything as a writer?

clickbait-y talking point

stereotypical drug lords, maids, gangbangers,

pushback against this new Trump administration

built on stereotypes about Latinx people

informing very real US policy today

Have we boxed ourselves into stories only about good brown people and better brown people?

by looking away from those

stereoptypes does that make us complicit

weaponizing stereotypes against us?

James Baldwin taught us

respectability politics will not save us

look it in the eye

explore the complexity

of that stereotype

reclaim it.

those stories

are ours

basic truth

we feel cheated by portrayals

as told through the white gaze

It is significant

Look these impolite realities in the eye

Why/ How?

Demand complex stories

You don’t know the lives you’re deporting

You don’t want to know

If we ignore the complexities of our world

we make literature dumber not smarter

we should tell those stories.

 

Why Latinx Writers Should Decenter the Narratives That Have Been Weaponized Against Us