The Poetry Marathon

The Accusers (3rd hour)

I donned on my black boots readying myself for war

Tied my hair into knots with twigs and rope

Placing my hands upon the dirt and vowing whispers to my sisters

I will awaken with thee

And open a path of serenity

So mote it be

Floating around a crowd filled demonious hatred, pointing and shouting at me

Stating that my kind is the one in pact with the evil one

While they drown and burn us due to their sanctimonious irony

As I approach the platform they spit upon me

The rope passes my crown and fastened tight upon my neck

The face of God appears to me as she whispers that the Devil drives their souls

Leaving me with my last words before I am hung

Forgive them, for they do not know

 

 

 

 

 

# 3 Memory Mountain

The primordial mountain looms over
the discarded and desolate cabin
Where once warm log fires
sultry laughter and
good wine dwelt

Though the sockets of the hut appear empty
they have seen much
The walls remember everything
and the roof contains these long ago
memories within

The memories, though glorious
and poignant, authentic and languid
are however not enough to oppose
the austere, abrasive, disapproving
landscape of societal reality and constraints

The cabin should have relented some time ago
caved in, disintegrating under the spurn and neglect
but it remains, stands fast – stubborn and proud
refusing to let go of that last vestige of
Hope

Back Up

The weight of the suitcase handle pulls on my fingers
like a child whose question repeats in perpetuity–
Are we there yet

I’ve closed our front door so many times and hadn’t noticed
until now that the deep wooden thud was our discordant song
spilling down our neighborhood streets

Our first words (excuse me) tripped over
our worst ones (I loathe you) blurring out
our sweetest thoughts (he really loves me) and here

I am, on a sidewalk in October, holding tightly
to my grandfather’s vintage luggage, unable to answer
where I’ll be, still perplexed by how this happened

Retrace: the hope we were gifted, wrapped in silver
and lavender paper, each dish fit just so in the cabin
we couldn’t pass up, tucked as it was into a grove of Douglas firs

Remember: you’re crazy was code for I was right
and no that didn’t make me happy and yes I was willing
to look past her but your fist in my temple packed my bags for me

Reverse: the dew slips from a spider’s thread, the strands
curling back into her abdomen. It is Saturday morning
again and you are still lying in our bed, reaching for me

Subtle Rituals

 

favorite tie or trousers
feel life’s got me tight
is it luck or the ritual
it’s your identity that forms you
accept things as they are
it’s no crime against nature
welcome this direction
train to recognize

Ferns 3/24

Between the red ferns, my belly roars

one person’s growl,

is another person’s piano music,

as soft as young laughter.

 

Between my red ferns,

not but an inch of skin is clear

from the stretching.

 

They put several of me into jars,

I grew larger and more reluctant,

and the scars came

from the stretching.

 

2014 prompt to use certain words in a poem.

3. Home

Home now a distant memory
A photograph embedded in the corners of her mind
Her silhouette standing against the front gate
Now broken now demolished
In an empty house, an empty home
Where did time go?
Can she build again in this new place where
Land is scarce and stars only appear on screens?
Only time will tell
Hope, it seems is lost for now
Just a little courage to not fall
Home…

Fidget Spinner

First Poem—posted at 9 a.m. CDT on the wrong page

 

That fidget spinner

Whirling focuses attention

But piques teacher’s ire.

Desert Salvation

Holding Mama’s hand

The sun blistering my face, my body

My feet burning in the sand

My throat scorched

Nothing to drink

But Mama held my hand

In the middle of the Arizona desert

Waiting for Jesus to save us

 

No cross

No crown of thorns

No white robe

In the middle of the Arizona desert;

Instead,

Sirens

Flashing lights

Fear,

But finally, the gentle hand

Of a stranger

Carrying me to safety

 

To a new home

With Grandma, Grandpa, Sisters

Dogs

Art

Music

Safety

Faith

And

Love

In the middle of the Arizona desert

The house where the wind lives

The house where the wind lives

Has no doors. The windows whisper
To the sagebrush nestled beneath them:
Hold fast, my loves. Hold fast.
Behind the weathered wooden walls
High plains stretch langurously
Their flat bodies supine beneath
The wide pale sky
Mornings, the wind has breakfast
With her lover, cloud.
Cloud’s tendril fingers reach
For sage blossoms
Which wind blows across
The sagging table. She smiles.
Cloud shakes his head, and droplets
Of rain fall from his white hair.
This is the house where the wind lives
He reminds himself. And smiles back.

Shore Story

Shore Story

 

It always was a part of me; the salt, the crashing of the sea.

Sandy toes part of the lure; waves big and small, they are the cure.

A seagull cries, my eyes they follow; he flies far off into tomorrow.

If only I could fly with him; leave the tasks of life so dim.

The sun it sets, all red and golden; treasure of this day a token.

Evening creeps upon once more; all is well when at the shore.

-Mary-Jeanne Smith