The Poetry Marathon

Homesick (Poem #9)

Tears swell in my eyes

Pain in my chest

An ache in my heart

My body feels weak

My life feels like it’s not moving

I am so far from home

Yet getting so much closer to going back

I am away

But I know I will be back home

The feeling of being so far from you

The homesickness

The feeling that part of me is missing

Only a few more weeks

This feeling will only be here a little longer

I cannot wait to reunite

To be in your arms

To feel your embrace

I’ve waited my whole life for you

Just let me come home

I don’t want to be homesick anymore

North

Our temperate climate has grown balmy,
so maybe it’s time we head across the border
to Canada,
find a place where our children and theirs
and theirs and theirs can survive
for the next millennia or so.

Survival
of the fittest
or the fastest.
What it comes down to
seems to be migration and luck.

Note: The title comes from the novel, North, by Donna Jo Napoli.

What is this feeling that I am experiencing I can’t breathe so many things are running through my head so many emotions I can’t identify. I feel that my heart is still breaking and my trust for anyone has gone away. I feel like I cant trust what anyone say. Even those I feel is being genuine about they’re feelings. Will I every trust again or even love. Or have my past and present situations kept my guarded.

The Messenger

The night descends upon me

As I must continue on

Though shadows now assail me

I must arrive by dawn

The failures of a lifetime

Confront me on my way

With rein in hand I push on

Single minded I shall remain

Until my tasks are done

I cannot stop nor sleep

With miles ahead before me

My word I now must keep.

Prompt 11: The Jātaka Tales

Were I to come as a wild thing.

By what form would learning bring:

flora, fauna, insect slug,

ant or bird or black tautaug?

 

If I were born to poor disgrace;

Would you yet see a human face?

Black man, white man— in between,

would you think; I know something?

 

There are truths to learn from all.

Buddha teachers— great and small.

Open up yourself— discern.

All are books— from all, you learn.

 

 

 

 

 

Keep Your Place

linger where you belong

safe, secure, secluded

I am the mighty one

the leader

venturing to greener pastures

stay in our nest

snug, serene for me

let it enclose you

think of it not as a prison

but as a refuge

I am all you need

all you need

you’ll find in my arms

under my protection

and if I must at times

exact discipline

to keep you safe

bow to my wisdom.

I am woman

 

 

Hour 7

The scent of warm redwood and pine

and golden light dripping between the branches

of a California forest afternoon

and you lean back in your chair

beer in hand,

and sigh contentedly with the trees.

 

There is no life like this

not like this

 

I step onto the patio

my bare feet dusty and stuck with sap

you smile, I thump forward

and ask about the barbecue

will there be ribs tonight?

 

Maybe this is a thing that happened

and maybe it never did

because it must have been a vacation

and I was a child

and you were a dead man

and the places we meet are as fleeting

as the shadow cast by a moving bough

in a California forest.

NINE

This year, in fourth grade, I changed schools

Though we still lived at the same location.

Long-closed in our town, with a reputation for ghouls,

Many decades old, the building underwent renovation.

 

Our new teacher looked just like TV’s Wonder Woman,

All the boys were moon-eyed and drooled,

Though for nine year-old males, that wasn’t uncommon,

To see them act like fools.

 

I was picked for a new advanced class.

Only my best friend and I were chosen, what fate!

One day we were given an all-day pass

To visit the governor of our state.

 

I have a photo somewhere as I’m standing by him.

What things I would say now, but back then I was much too prim.

Hour 9: The Great Gatsby

The Great Gatsby

The shape of restlessness

Sparkling in the night

Bated breath

Your love potion

Is pure poison

Your face, your ache

is familiar

 

Her well-loved eyes

A thin red circle

Where your heart used to be

In its stead, 

A pale gold odor

What a grotesque thing

Dear Jay,

What were you thinking?

The Feather Thief

A peculiar heist,

Not diamonds, or money,

But a feather tryst.

 

Ornithological sabotage,

Born from a feather obsession.

Crime scene in Tring

from the Natural History Museum.

 

Feathers from specimens

Centuries old;

Species from long ago

 

Extinct.

 

Stuffed into a bag,

No reverence

For the history

Or the species.

 

Ornate, rare feathers,

Treasures

For fishing

Has become an art.

Fly-tiers’ lips

Are sealed

About the crime.

“You don’t want to piss us off.”