The Poetry Marathon

Hour Three

Que

 

Eternity Now

flashes in bright blue neon

atop a dark, metal building

more rust than gray

selling a promise of forever

a secret long sought,

but never found.

 

Will those lined up outside

find it when they cross

the threshold?

4- Mamas Fridge

I’m a finger painter

I can spend hours at my easel at a time

And Mama says I’m her favourite artist

The fridge holds my art with pride

 

I’m a ballet dancer

I practice every day until my feet hurt

And Mama watches every recital

The fridge holds my dance shot with pride

 

I graduated nursing school

I worked hard for years to reach my goal

And Mama’s my biggest support

The fridge holds my graduation picture with pride

 

I found the love of my life

We are getting married in the spring

And Mama’s by my side through it all

The fridge holds the announcement with pride

Hazy View From Here…

(more…)

The Eternal Rose

Sun doesn’t set,

Moon doesn’t rise,

Days are endless for Rose.

 

Floating among stars,

Observant always,

Placid smile, gaze wanders.

 

Center of the universe,

Mistress of eternity,

Shining bright in the Heavens.

 

Who or what she is,

No one quite knows,

Not even she, The Eternal Rose.

(Art: “Blossoming” by Sasha Yoss)

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Caring because you endured the harsh environment the month of doubt during my recovery
Kind because you still pulled me up as the bullet brought upon deadly suggestions
Stubborn because you see the outcome of my fate before me
Helping nature because you open up your home to the woman that took your place
Traveler because you plan ahead to see all of God’s creation.
Strong because you bared the pain of losing your parent and siblings and still make each day brighter
Brave because you stood in between life and death
Friendly because you never hold a grudge
Talkative because you never leave a room without conversation and a smile
Good natured because you always greeted with a smile followed by a hug
This day is your day Happy Birthday Mom

Notes on Maps

hour 4: handshake in the womb

Umma and I have an understanding of sorts—
we must have shaken hands on it when I was in the womb—
that even if she lied, her presence would be honest.

I always feel the lie,
the ease in our conversation sputters
to a halt.
Our backs are stiff and straight like
we are leaning on double-edged swords.
It is precarious
to acknowledge the untruth in the other,
so we choke on the air between us, hold our breaths.
We must have shaken hands on it when I was in the womb—

I remember coming home from school
to find her on the floor, legs neatly beneath her,
and as she recounted the way her youngest sister died,
her hands were busy at work with something
unimportant but distracting enough
for her voice to hide the pain
that her body made clear.
We must have shaken hands on it when I was in the womb—
I sat there
cradling my backpack instead of
her broken heart.

I remember the way she screamed
and the next second, my eyes found the tree,
and him
and the noose.
And the leaves broke her fall and
wiped away her tears,
while I stood and watched from a distance.
Only when the man walking his dog found us
and told me to comfort my mother
before dialing for help
did I touch her.
Umma and I have an understanding of sorts.

Wedding Band

You bought me so long ago, I can barely remember.

I sat in a box, soft and dark, until early December.

The lights were so bright, the people all so thrilled.

I was pleased, too, my purpose finally fulfilled.

I rested on his hand, warm and shaking with pride.

(But in just a few years, that warmth would subside.)

He built you a chair, and I got hit with a screw.

It left quite the dent, but I protected him for you.

I clanked against bottles whenever he drank.

Those warm hands grew cold, and my hopeful heart sank.

I remember the feel of your cheek on my skin.

That was the night the policemen barged in.

He threw me away, but you picked me back up.

You cradled me softly like a frightened young pup.

I’ve sat in the box for years, now, I think.

I’m losing all hope and mourning my chink.

But look! There you are! Smiling and crying.

Yes, I do believe this man is worth trying.

 

And here, on his hand, I’ve perched for ages.

I feel a small giggle as he turns the pages

of a little girl’s book, the ink bright and new.

I can’t keep from thinking, “She looks just like you!”

 

4.

I am the Wolf

Ya Volk, in Russian, for you gypsy types (my types)

You can find me in the dark, look for me in the night when

The shard of the crescent moon slices through smoky clouds, shades of black

Against a velvet sky, crusted with splintered glass stars

 

I am the Wolf

An auburn wolf, with hints of yellow ochre and russet (is that white?)

Eyes like the ocean before a storm, swirling, locked

Hunter’s eyes, eyes of a predator

You must not fear me.

 

I am the Wolf

The darkness fears me. For I am that which stands at the gates (your sentinel)

Ready to do violence against that which would storm your gates

I bare my teeth, lips quivering and a rumble, almost endearing

Echoes in the cavity of my chest. A war drum.

 

I am the Wolf

And you must not fear me. Are we not animals ourselves? (hold your heart in my heart & listen)

Every human given an animal soul to find and cherish. to hold. To become.

Become what you are. What you have been. Be wolves. Be lions. Be dolphins.

Be jaguars, and dragons. Be the creatures of Gaia. The Ravens of Odin.

 

 

Prompt#4 Tug-of war

Warring love’s flow and minds clogged
Clippity clippety clop plopped
On chairs and couches we sit and intone
Hearts of rocks, eyes-dimmed clones

There is no hope for resurrection
No coming alive in the after-hours section
Having done for the future our bygones
On chairs and couches we sit and intone

Why this sudden jerk towards north
Why the pen instead shoots forth
What goes head over heels dropped
Clippity clippety clop plopped

Those who hate tonight
Will they love by morning light
Faces they spit on, or to wilt are prone
Hearts of rocks, eyes dimmed clones