The Poetry Marathon

Lighting

My jeans. They’re kind of rough
to the touch, and button-up blue,
which is okay with me.
The lower cuffs are stiff
with dried dew from the grasses
I walked through this morning.

The sun shone dimly red
from the wildfire up north.
It looked like I was on
an African savannah,
with the grasses, and the sun
peering through the cottonwoods.
Except, let’s be honest:
I’ve never been to Africa,
so how would I know?

Still, it doesn’t quite look
like home. The Canadian
wildfires, and the one
down in the Chuckanuts,
have cast a heavenly glow
over the landscape. As I walk
past the pond, the surface
shimmers bronze between
the lily pads. The flowers,
usually pink-tinged white,
are orange this morning
from the new light.
Even the rabbits are out
to nibble from the gold
and green grasses.

Attention Deficit Disorder

 

Buried far back in time
Fossilized in his silent heart
Daddy and those pounding fists disappeared.

Packed away in his spleen fester the words he learned
While waiting for the pummeling to wane.

There stands his spine:
Rigid, upright, furious now if one asks him to bend.

Under his skin writhe wounds still open though veiled with scars.
A cut for each day of hunger
A scratch for each hate word slung
A little pinchaso each time Mama barked back
A stab each trick his sister turned
Deep punctures for each of Mama’s vicious boyfriends
And a serious slice for the kind one who remembered his birthday and
Died
On the sidewalk
Under the elm
Just getting a jacket he left in the car.

Tats scroll his collar and hands to
Remind Mama he has been long gone for years, and
Emulate his friends, who advise a few tattoos create a look of
Experience and a nibble of safety when
Inevitably entering prison.

Each expensive stitch
Expresses the bank he makes
Selling dank at the junior high and the
Bullshit future world of respect all those teachers
Lie about if only he’d fulfill his
Potential.

He sets his face in neutral,
Mind tasting the freedoms of night.

Far, far away, almost on a different planet,
His hand rests on a desk holding a pencil that,
uncaptained, dawdles around the blank page.

Ghost

I’ve always felt like a ghost,

An outsider that didn’t belong,

A vacancy with the lights turned off.

I ran into a man the other day who called to me,

He remembered me from some party I went to a few years back.

It frightened me.

It meant that I looked like a person and that people remembered and recognized that person long after I had moved on.

I am plain and forgettable.

I don’t leave fingerprints.

I walk through the world, a ghost, and no one takes notice.

I thought.

I want.

Hour 6

Halfway Through

this has to make do

I’m already far behind

enjoy this haiku.

Dear Future Self (2017)

Dear Future Self,

How are we doing?
Have we accomplished great things?
Did we reach our dreams?
Did we graduate from the University?
Did we actually go for that double major?
Have we visited Rome?
Have we climbed the steps of Notre Dame?
Did we see the mountains of China?
Did we see the cherry blossoms of Japan?
Are we still friends with Kayla?
Is our family finally getting along?
Are we married now
with a husband and child?
Did we ever publish
that novel we were writing?

So many more questions running through my mind,
but right now I have something to say.
I hope we are happy.
I hope we still love superheroes and anime
and that we are still going to Comic Cons.
I hope we haven’t lost our love of imagination.
I hope we still love working with children and young people.
I hope we still love having fun now and then.
I hope we still go to movies at the drive-in
and go on long drives just because we can.
I hope we still think of epic fanfiction stories.
I hope we are still writing.
I hope we are still smiling each day
or at least as often as we can.
I hope we know that we are loved.

Dear Future Self,
Please know that I am still rooting for us.
I still have hope for us.
I still believe in us.

Until the day our paths finally meet,

Your Past Self

Hour Seven The Nightly Gin Game

07 2017 The Nightly Gin Game

The Nightly Gin Game
by Paul Robert Sanford

Kristen and I play cards at the end of the evening.
Always gin. We don’t keep score. We talk about each hand.

Gin is a lot like life.
Kristen plays by hope and hunches as well as the odds.
As much as possible I work out the math and play the “best” card.
We usually come out about even.

When I win I always announce that it was because of either:
Superior Play or
Tremendous Luck.
Kristen explains why she won –
She Finally Got Her Card or
She Made It Work or
They Just All Came Together.

Kristen likes to hold on until she gets gin.
I like to knock, go down with 9 in bunches and an extra card
to catch her with a load of points.
Sometimes it backfires,
and she undercuts me,
but I like the excitement.
I like to think I can tell what’s in her hand by the way she picks up her cards.

Sometimes I collect face cards just for the fun of shuffling them around
and making them work in different combinations.
Kristen has an annoying habit of picking up the first card I lay down,
if it is a face card, particularly a king.
We know each other well.

We both marvel and enjoy
when either of us has a “pretty hand”
with a long run, or some lovely pattern.

We enjoy catching each other either with very few points or
A record number.
The most points you can have without matching
is 98 points
we’ve had hands in the sixties and seventies and marveled and enjoyed.

While Kristen shuffles I putter
or get a snack.
A couple of times I quickly watered my plants.

Banjaran

HOUR SEVEN

i.

itchy feet-

a banjaran

footprints on

the golden dust-

sweet vanilla scent

I prick cactus from my heart.

 

ii.

emerald lake-

coarse pebbles

kohl eyes on the lake bed

unruffled water

monotony

I reflect on my life choices.

 

iii.

a canyon-

haven of hopes

Arizona winds rustle

tap dancer shoes

digital conundrum breaks

in my pocket- wishful stars.

Copyrighted by Ruchi Chopra, 2017.

The Baby Came

The baby came.

But first he came,

and before that they loved

and before that they came together

married; but first they fell in love

and lastly, they met.

What?

Gut wrenching

Darkness speaks

Inner thoughts

Running deep

To my disbelief!

It happened!

Did I clearly see?

Walking at daybreak

Stomach turning vision

Right in front of me

Stillness and fear stayed me

Then

I died

From Someone Who is Shy

Hey guys listen up from someone who is shy
From her meek little smiles to her words that say why
Underestimate not what this shy one can do
She can move every mountain and might defeat you

Hey guys listen up from someone so secretive
From someone whom we thought was never active
Belittle her never for she might overpower
All those that are loud and those that chatter

Hey you all of you who are so unbeatable
Quiet ones are deadly lethal and able
They can mesmerize crowds when they start to speak
We’ll find out they are strong and was never been weak

For quiet ones are thinkers and analytical
Waiting for a moment a chance and a call
And when they begin to speak all their minds
We’ll be blown and in awe for the true masterminds.