The Poetry Marathon

11. The Messenger XI

A big white tower, there is only one

And there will be no other

This is not a serious building

Actually it is, but not to take seriously

Here, most things are horizontal

Only this tower is an exception

The other buildings are all very horizontal

And without any right angles

All lines are organic

As if all these buildings popped out

Naturally from the Earth,

Growing like mushrooms

Nobody is the leader

And when one goes up to the top of the big tower,

It’s only to see things a little higher

And notice from one’s eyes, that everything is horizontal

Hour #11, Prompt #14

SHE AND I

Sitting by the stilled pond, I am startled
by the earnest green eyes gazing up through me
to the tall pine tree, imposing trustee
of my childhood home and innocence.

She is nine, has just learned how tender
her guileless heart toward a young kid in need,
the joy of its gamboled frolic at her
approach. She gazes skyward

never imagining herself salt-and-peppered,
awed still by the promise of nature
as in her youth. I quell an urge to touch her cheek,
the soft slope of its sadness dragging her down,

unnoticed, into ‘not good enough.’
For what, I want to ask? Good enough,
I want her to see, to have lived
sixty years more emerged

from invisibility into tangible life —
our three children — whom I suddenly wish
she could befriend.  I raise my own eyes
to the trees ringing the pond

none a tall pine, but grand enough
to take me back to these roots,
my natural loves twined together
like our images on the pond’s surface.

sarahw

Not a letter, but true to the prompt in other respects. I wrote this poem years ago in response to a different-but-similar prompt and really like the way it turned out. And, right now, my eyes are burning from so much screen time that I’m needing a break.

Prompt 14/H11- letter to my past self

Dear me -8 and no one believes you,

No one will ever appreciate the effort you put into every act of kindness,

Not until you’ve given up on love and respect, not until your life is a mess.

You will tell the truth for days and years but at some point, it’s easier to just lie

Because as you grow and change in strengths you will never want to cry

And they’d rather believe the liar than the one who doesn’t fit their faulty expectations.

Don’t worry though. You’re not alone.

In the future that I’ve been shone

You’ll find them, friends better than family

Who understand everything that happens to you and me

You keep on shining

Keep on Glowing

Live

Learn

Love.

Look at you now, living your dream.

 

Sincerely,

Me

Go Easy, It’s Not A Race, Hour 11

Dear 19-year old nutjob,

As per our previous discussion that one time when you were candyflipping at a rave and mistakenly identified your future self as god…

It’s important to remember that while these weekends of hedonism and debautchery may seem trivial, they do have an impact on me. Well, on you, but later.

My liver hurts dude, and that time you got wasted and decided it would be a good idea to jump out of a moving car and broke your collarbone?

Well, it never healed right, and now it aches when it rains. Asshole, what were you thinking?

Anyway, good news is, you survived

Barely

I mean, you escaped with your sanity,or so the little aliens living underneath your doormat want you to believe

Point is, go easy

There’s a long time to go, and the physical form is finite

Pace yourself

-Your Future Self

P.S. Brush your teeth, dental work is expensive

prompt 14, hour 11 ~ Dear Britton

Dear Britton, who is trying to have children ~

They will come. I promise.
Two gloriously rowdy sons, unlike the daughters
you expected. Nothing like the sisters you grew
up with. You will learn that feminism contends
with biology. Neither will play with the dolls
you buy them, and they will create guns
despite your reluctance. They will also learn
to cook, and discover that men can discuss feelings.

It will be hard. All your choices from the first
birth will spin around them like the moon
orbits the earth, the earth her sun. They
will be your center, even before their father.
Where you live, how you live, making a living in general…
all of this dependent on two small boys, their eyes
so much like all who came before them. You will trace
your roots upon their small bodies as they grow.

It will get harder. They will test you beyond
imagining. Death & danger stalk each separately,
the heavy weight of empty futures your recurring nightmare.
Nothing will ever be the same. Not your body, not your life,
not the love of your life. Certainly not all you know & learn.
Somewhere along the way, they will cease to be
sons. They will become friends, confidantes, tellers
of their own tales. Their travels, their own children,
will become blocks & stitches in whatever life quilt
you piece. And through it all, you will remember:
This is what you wanted. This is what you are.
It is more than enough.

It’ll Be Okay

Dear 17-year-old Courtney,

I want you to know what love is, okay? But most importantly, I want you to know what love isn’t.

Love isn’t being used. It isn’t being asked to drive 30 minutes out of your way in order to see that special someone at 3 am. It isn’t having to constantly take care of things that aren’t your problem. It isn’t being put on the backburner with no idea where you stand. It isn’t being left in the middle of a party with people you don’t know, to just stand there and continue to drink your Diet Dr. Pepper. It isn’t being stuck in a hot car with a guy you keep pushing away and asking to stop.

Love is something sacred, something dumb and stupid, something magical. It’s being with your best friend, your protector, your most prized possession and being treated the same. It is communication and clarity. Love is working through the bumps, hard work, ups, and downs.

One night, you’re going to be at a party with a boy you are madly infatuated with, not in love. You’ll think everything is fine. You’ll meet two other boys that night, and they will change your life. One will physically abuse you, one will break your soul. And if I could go back in time and pull your keys out the ignition as you were driving to that godforsaken place, I wouldn’t do it.

When it happens, when the cards begin to fall, you’re going to feel lost. You’ll feel worthless and broken. You may never heal from the scars that you are left with. It happens fast, so pay attention. You’ll notice that in your time of crisis, of life-altering pain, people will leave. And it won’t be until you’re seemingly “fine” that they begin to crawl back. You won’t know how to process the events that transpired, but you will know one thing. You need a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on. And you will take the first thing that comes your way.

Things won’t be great. You’ll stumble through confusing conversations, months of being unable to understand that you are nothing more than a booty call. You’ll be scared to ask hard questions, because deep down you know the answers already. You’ll pour your heart and soul into a boy who doesn’t love you. But it ‘ll take you a few months to realize it.

And then you’ll meet one, final boy. A boy who treats you like you’re a delicate flower. A boy who, on your first date, will look over at you as you’re saying goodbye and ask in the sweetest voice, “Can I kiss you?” A boy who you can be yourself around, tell anything to, trust, and feel safe with.

You’ll cautiously dip your toe into the idea of this boy, and he’ll respect your boundaries. He talks with you to try to understand your hesitations. He makes sure you’re comfortable, happy, safe. He is open with his emotions, unafraid to share them. Never leaves your side at a party.

The boys that you met at the party that night, and the boy you went with, they witnessed a terrible thing happen to you. They were the first people who saw you as you left that car, bruises on your neck, and they said nothing. You’ll stumble into the bathroom, your close friend by your side and start to cry tears that you don’t understand. I’m sorry to say that I still, don’t understand. You’ll lay down, shaking and clutching yourself, feeling like your heart is an ice cream cone left out in the sun.

Love is not letting the person you’re with fall apart like that. Love is not something that can be determined by certain boxes you check off on a list. Love is not something you have to think about.

So, Courtney, I leave you with this, you will break. You will fall. But you will not stay that way.

It’ll be okay.

With Love,

19-year-old Courtney

Hello I am Bayley

I am eleven years old. I am doing the half marathon. I write for Entropy 2 and spillwords. I also have chapbooks. I like comic books. I am Valkyrie Kerry’s son.

To Diane, you should have taken a chance

MY SURFER BOY

It was always the beach calling me
smell, ocean breezes and frothy wave
What happened next upon that sea
I kept close to my heart, save
the best secrets in my soul go free

When the handsome surfer brought me on his boat
I was 17; both had long flowing hair, starting to experiment
With drugs and drinking, driving and the rest,
You know what I mean if you made it through
Too many didn’t and the rest, don’t let it worry you

Surfer boy took me out to sea on a late summer day
At first we laughed and looked at each other, blue eyes
stared at my brown, and a kiss formed, sweet and soft
He grabbed and held me close, and started telling me things
the things he would like to do, and his voice changed

Surfer boy became surfer man and I was willingly trapped on his boat
Suddenly the sun dove into the waves, no moon took its place
The funny toasts we made to each other became our sweet love songs
I didn’t want to go back to the shore, please oh please, I begged, some more
and surfer man wanted me to stay, in fact he wanted me for the whole next day

I’ll never forget my surfer boy, long blonde hair with eyes so blue
Our special love story started upon my surfer boy’s boat
But life got in the way again, a young girl and young man
He had to fish for his father, you see, and I had to go back to land
We promised we would keep in touch, but so much for that plan

I often think of you, surfer boy and wonder where you’ve gone
I’m back on land and missing the sea, the shore and especially you
With long blonde hair and eyes so blue
Wonder if you would have been true
My magical surfer boy, I miss you

© Diane Morinich

Hour 11, Prompt 14: Dear Past Self

Dear Jill from the Past,

I am proud of the accomplishments you made in your 20s. You helped a lot of people with your writing and never asked a thing. But, if you could change anything from your 20s and early 30s, I wish you would have seen sooner how used and abused you were by friends, associates, and some family members. These people did nothing but take advantage of your helping nature and, in their own ways, hurt you. While they created experiences you used to heal yourself through writing, I know deep scars remain. Forgive yourself. You were only responsible for you and all you did was to try and help or protect these other people.

Your light still shines brightly. One day, you’ll see it in your daughter’s smile.

Love,

Me

I’m in a Mexican Mood

To hear la cumbia floating from the windows

To taste the spices on fruta con sal

To stop by the stands of tacos and gorditos and quesadillas

To drive along the tunnels with the smell of old water

To name the stray dogs that come to lick the crumbs at our feet

To hail los taxis verdes with distant shouts and cram aunts uncles and cousins in the back seat

To jump at the sounds of cohetes that ricochet off the valley walls

To wake in the morning to the cry of las gallinas and the man who walks the early streets with baskets full of fresh pan

To see family again, just to stop missing them