The Poetry Marathon

Reversed

I held his large, gnarled hand
and knew unconditional love
and safety as I gazed
upward at my father’s face.

My well-being depended
on the strength of this one person,
reliable and unfailingly kind, his
lightly seamed face smiling down at me.

The years passed, and I grew,
child to adult, but Dad
remained my hero, always
knowing the right words to say,
embodying all that a father should
and could be, until the day
that he could no longer remember
my name, nor fully grasp my hand.

Now he smiles up at me, his heavily seamed
face still, in lucid moments, reliable and kind.
The past strength of this one person
gave me my own sense of eternal well-being.

I gaze downward at my father’s face
safely resting in his reclining bed
and feel unconditional love
as I hold his curled, and somehow smaller, hand.

I hear the chilling sound of his voice
as I recognize behind me–the
cold click-clack of the shotgun loading.

Barely able to breathe, I lift my eyes from
the plates in my hands to
see his reflection, in the
window over the sink. I see his evil smirk.

“Are you ready to finish that fight now?”
My heart racing, electricity
surging through my body, in slow
motion, I turn to face him.

Fear so intense I lose
control of my body; seeing me
standing in my own puddle, he
laughs and walks out again.

Humiliated and terrified, I
drop to the floor and
weep for my babies, praying
they will never know this terror.

© 2017 Kathleen J Kidder
8/5/2017 Hour Seven – Half Marathon

Yuletide greetings in August,
The sky turning black in the middle of the day,
A world of selfishness
balanced by gentle moments of compassion.

Knowing what would come, 
Would Emily Dickinson have followed 
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert with girlish glee?
or 
Could she have sought the spectacles of P.T. Barnum while
Mocking a tall president with the top hat?

Were he to see love turned into mockery,
Would e.e. cummings have turned to accounting
For linear reasoning and resolute answers?
or 
Would he have cynically chosen the safety of 
Home rather than valiant heroism as a war volunteer, 
Forever misrepresenting those who went in his place?

Had Maya Angelou known the struggles would continue
Years upon years after her civil rights work, 
Would she still have cast herself as a bird longing to sing?
or 
Might she have stayed a quiet girl in the Missouri shadows,
Fading and dessicating in the dusty town before being swept into the river?

Juan Felipe Herrera and Tracy K. Smith? Who would they be
Were it not for the poets before them?
Would they have had the bravery to break the rules of social expectations?
Could they have expressed, gathered, communed, and inspired
Had voices, pens, and lives been dismally set aside, ignored, and wasted?

A poem turned inside out: 
The message of the poet inverted.
More meaningful if we read them both
Worthless if left alone, vulnerable, and neglected.

I am not so different

I do want the same thing
as everyone else—
but on different terms

That may be good enough
or it may not
so I hide

I am not so different
all of us
are taught to hide

I happen to be better at it

(5 August 2017)

I wear my heart on my sleeve

My spleen likes to ride on my shoulder

My pancreas dictates everything I do

My right calf prefers to be known as Fred

My boobs do whatever they want

My liver encourages them

I have a cavity in my left brain

And a cold sore in my right

My gall bladder seems timid

My left shoulder whispers in secret

My right shoulder hates gossip

Everytime the phone rings

My uterus gets nauseous

My ears have 20 /20 vision

My eyes only hear what they want to hear

My colon is in knots on top of my forehead

My lungs have given their power to my big toe

My thumb says it plans a coup

The intestine ties it all together

But it’s the pinky that has the real knowledge

(more…)

My seams are showing

I’ve exposed the wrong side to the world

bumpy, backward

the colors are strange,

messy little threads, a patchwork.

This happens when I put my socks on before drinking my coffee.

The vampire squid does not care, turning himself inside out,

using it to his advantage.