The Poetry Marathon

The Last line

While reading something

i think of the last line

Its so important

More than the first one

 

The firsts make you move ahead

And the lasts stays with you

No matter how long it was

Many years may pas.

 

one always remembers

The lasts

 

The last kiss

A last hug

The last goodbye

His face,

When we met the last time.

 

The last line

keeps all of the things

It embraces

All the flaws

And still makes you remember

The sweet memories

 

The last line

is our true companion

Which remains with us

The whole life..

home, welcome

home, welcome

i burn chamomile
in our den,
lull the embers
with the heel of my thumb,
sniff the sullen warmth,
its soft tickle
like you
walking in, fingers on my shoulder,
to read another book.
the sun quells brightness,
reverts us to lamps.
breathless, we are quiet.
I think of the Davenport home
& how we searched the chain-linked mile
of pond for an alligator never found, or named.
i put your necklace back on when we left Miami.
Miami, grey as before, & still no laughter,
that same desire for a colder warm
in what you call
my heart. i don’t know
what it is. the Atlantic follows,
its bulbous yearning for us
to make waves, ruffle the salt-mist
where we were sandwiched between
two skies, fishing from our kayaks.
i will never get used to the light.
home is my ever-barefoot sidewalk &
the blister built callouses
i indulge in. i make myself
here & there. Detroit makes itself
bigger for us to excuse
claustrophobia. Cincinatti is an
inhale of rusted sweat, exhale
of brick demeanor.
i read you in glances: you haven’t moved.
the page is different every time.
i try not to shift
unless you do,
from where you want
to be.

Hour 21: Lullabies

I was no savior,
let myself die another tense image.
of each other.

the end my friend #24

the end my friend

 

put on my ruby slippers when you lay me out

place my elder wand in my right hand

as my nimbus 2000 leans against my glass casket

at my wake enjoy half cups of tea with sweet cakes

think only happy thoughts of my most magical life

my rings long gone have taken my sadness with them

always needing a bigger boat I have managed quite well

know the force is still with me and the odds in my favor

I will miss you all dearly but remember

there’s no place like home

Phew!

Congratulations to everyone crossing the finish line!

I don’t feel as though my quality is as up to scratch as last year, but I’m proud to have participated all the same. No regrets! Now I’m going to give my poor laptop a rest (and my brain)! See you later!

Hour 20: Embers

burn through me.
let the flames do my bidding.

Zoe the never dog #23

Zoe the never dog

 

We rescued her from Jersey

She doesn’t like my mother the boy said

While he fixed our invisible fence

Would you want another dog he asked

Before I could run this by my husband

He was gone and back from Jersey

Miss Zoe has a terrible overbite

And those big buggy eyes drool

Causing a stiff crust beneath each eye

She’ll growl if you attempt to clean her face

Never coming when called

An empty repertoire of tricks

She’s a terrible dog as dogs go

Though she is perhaps the most

Loving person I know

Keeping track of time she is

Devoted to me from morning ’til 4:00

When she turns her attention to my husband

Making sure he’s in bed by 7:00

Offering her grand bribes

I pray she will speak to me

Just once

Let’s do it again 

I think I did it

Holy shit i did it? 

I fuckin’ did it!

Clean Those Hands.

Wash away the dust and grime.

Surfaces pitted past their prime

with dirt, smut, muck and slime.

To be unclean is a grievous crime.

Every year my task to climb

scrub, scour, polish the rime.

Between each hour no bells that chime

the long hands of Big Ben in time.

Calling to You

Calling to you
holding half a lung back from screaming your name
or yelling through the ambiguous silence of a thousand leaves
falling at once on this November day
almost as if I could whisper and the stems of red oaks would
convey that trickled sound from my lips to the corner of your ear.

The white of your eyes no different than autumn’s grey dome
in lieu of rain and still brighter than its ashen cascade.
I am without jacket and have been since April.
The God that lives outside of my head hunkered over
and listening to all the nothing in there
like there’s only a fan blowing
and silence catches drift.

I’ve never seen the northern lights
or the blood moon
but I have seen you turning to your name
under the purging of every tree on campus
and walking to me
and I wished you could be the first to hear these thoughts
churning like a spark of heaven
in a hellish mind.