The Poetry Marathon

Flowering (a haibun)

One Saturday, Paul was able to go to the clinic by himself for his daily blood draw and follow-up. Our usual medical team had the weekend off, so it seemed less crucial for me to go, too. He came back buoyed up from meeting the nurse, originally from Japan, who turned out to be an ikebana practitioner, in the same modern school of ikebana I’d studied in.

I came along on Sunday to meet her. She was a ceramicist, landscape architect, flower arranger, expert oncology nurse, as well as a delightful person. She invited me to attend the local ikebana group, but I didn’t have the opportunity to do that during the intense time of the transplant.

in the rabbit-ravaged
tulip bed
some late bloomers

Shotgun Riders

Shotgun Riders

 

The rusty old pick-up

Holding up ladders

Is parked behind the barn

Worn tool belt on the floor

Buckets with brushes rest

On paint splattered seats

 

After he died they came

To my kitchen table

Each remembering their

Time as his shotgun rider

To unload, to work, to pack-up

Always talking about the game

 

Autumn setting up at deer camp

Chores completed with precision

They sat at his table to share

Beer, smoke, tell tall tales

Of youth, women, near-misses

Laughter connecting them

 

Decades passed while

He and the old truck kept on

Shotgun riders came and went

Now belonging to myths retold

At my kitchen table they sit

Next to his chair and weep

 

TobeTT # 6

Hour seven: Apology: My friend’s boyfriend

I do not understand what she sees
in him, his bumps and crevices
on full display, unapologetically ugly,
expecting to be loved exactly the way

he is— knobby feet in flip-flops,
clothing loose, draping over
the largest parts of him. He swirls
wine in his glass and tells me

my poem should be in couplets,
not tercets. He offers no compliments
first, no apologies, and I’m not
offended so much as jealous.

I write his comments in my notepad,
quiet in my disagreement, swallowing
my commentary about how men
don’t compromise, my fear that

my empathy and masculinity will
always be at odds, but he catches
my eye, says hey, you can disagree
if you want. I shouldn’t need

his permission, but I take it.
He listens before he speaks,
our comments falling into rhythm
like the punching of a chess clock,

a banter rooted in poetry,
an unapology, an undoing
of my silence. He’s still wrong
about the tercets, but I see

for a moment what my friend
does, the quick bounce of his wit,
and I wonder if anyone will ever
love me like that.

Excess

A word too many
A thought too loud
A sigh too heavy
An ask too much

A compliment overstated
A conversation repeated
A person contained

The expectation of who you are
A jacket too tight
The seams are splitting

A sky too limiting
The mantel is cracking

So the Earth opens up
Rending apart to break the mold
Allowing you to spill out
My Dear, a molten explosion
Into the universe, you go

Where it is big enough

Where it won’t try to contain you excess

Where there is room enough

Where you can splash out, pool and streak
Across infinity in watercolors made of creation

Zelda

“Quantum leaps herein upon belief!

Though I truly hate my mom’s fake beef…”

Zelda idly paused in almost thought.

Her face of beauty glazed as sadness brought

the vision of the one boys thought most fair.

Skip, skip, skip oh magic rock!

Touch, touch, touch, this water NOT!

I am Geraldine!” Kerplop…

“It tumbled when I threw…”

“Oh why!” Kerplunk…

“Can’t I!” Plip, plunk…

“Be YOU?” Splash!

Excess

Excess
The line
Between excess and abundance
A belief thin divide

Made of
Woven choices
Inherited treasures
Evolving appraisal

How to sort

Your laughter tipped out
Leaving rooms awash

Your tinder heart’s
Flammable radiance

Your holy longing
Arching over sensible thresholds

Your unbridled voice
Setting forbidden words free

Glory or disdain

Yours to award
With your
Beholding eye

#IDon’tKnow

My childhood seems so far away

though I am not yet an adult

not by the definition

the people go

for I have yet to wake up frowning

and fret over stuff a simple smile could solve

I have yet to know that life is not a joke

and stop laughing at my own misfortunes

I have yet to go and think what’s best for me

and not how i could make the day

better for everybody

not an adult, far from childhood

then maybe i am a drifter

yes, I go with the flow

singing with the wind

loving every second for

it won’t point out how tone-deaf i am

my childhood is far away

but life has just begin.

 

Cottonwood Summer (2019 Poem 3)

Cottonwood summer
Blurred pages flutter
Love fears
Chances not taken

Hope
Holds you back
Possibilities
Make life worth living

Make bigger choices
Stand taller
In your power
Rise be unstoppable

She

In the quest of her realm
She was a wandering soul
Discovering life
She grew
And knew that she herself was a gem!

In the thirst of knowledge
She was a wondering soul
Totally in aww of herself
Constantly questioning her identity
Somehow she knew
She was infinity!

Whilst her life itself had no meaning
Every little thing had a meaning in her life
But while she was alive
She was a witness to everything

Strange were her ways
She went on with the sways
Empty were her days
And success had delays

Something new (Prompt 7/Prompt 8)

Fertile passions

helped me remember

my strength when I decided to leap

yet my new living space did not stimulate my senses

instead I was confined by prejudices of neighbors

judging my family size

the adult to child ratio

pairing it with my skin

Judging my story

I never lived this close to them before

cracking blue ice of naivety

a space the sun never quite rose in

thinking it was safe for me now in this world

with every movement

noise calls were made about me

we couldn’t walk

couldn’t move

couldn’t play

All of us afraid to breathe

like we were all an animal sighting

Of something once extinct

Observed as a subhuman until I retreated to another space

where my toes were allowed to spread.