The Poetry Marathon

Hour 6 – The glass and the tool to soften it both start as sand

The glass and the tool to soften it both start as sand

I can’t quite identify all that I gained with him

but I do know that he took my spine as I left–

let me wilt for a while

until I found a way to reconstruct it 

from shattered bottles and memory, 

vertebrae of sharp edges

that kept tearing at the skin

of anyone who dared lay their hand

in the small of my back.

It’s funny how our bodies fight 

even the kindest

in the name of self-mercy.

 

Tonight, when I enter my room

and find abundance in my own arms

I will still wonder 

at the attainability of softness.

I have the tools

but cannot reach 

that one spot on my back.

I will wait. 

For someone to turn their hands 

to sandpaper and damp cloths.

For someone willing to 

hold me until the shards are gone.

2023 Full Marathon: Hour 6

It’s the time of year where

the ghosts will begin haunting

my hot tea and leaving

the full glasses of orange juice

           alone.

 

It’s time for lingering transition from

lemonades and iced teas to

apple ciders and salted caramels;

for jazz festivals and art walks —

movement

 

is a good thing I promise.

And inspiration can come from

new places if only you’ll let it.

It’s time for pictures that won’t

fade.

 

This is a time to remember

Embracing change is so beautiful.

 

-M. Rene’

 

P.S. I feel very very loved this hour my mom made encouragement cards for everyone marathoning (albeit in different ways) with me today and they are so fitting for each of us despite being picked randomly!

Poem 6: Crows at Sundown

I look out the kitchen window at the slanting light

that gilds all the shrubs and trees in the yard.

Tangerine clouds drift like schooners in the indigo sky.

A sudden clamorous cawing of crows calls me

to go outside where my like-minded neighbors

 

join me at the fence. We look up at a long row of black birds

strung close together on a telephone wire.

There’s not a single crumpled feather among them. I imagine

they can see themselves in the smooth sheen of their pals, their

beaks filled with dark song. One of them lets loose a singular caw!

 

like some horny housewife who wants to burn the restaurant

down because her husband goes there every day, because

he sleeps after tv each night so he can wake up all fresh

when he leaves again at dawn. A woman can be

jealous of bricks and ovens and crows who seldom

 

talk about restaurants or buildings because they never go inside.

My neighbors and I can tell the crows enjoy a strong wire

like this one they can safely perch on, where they won’t get

torched the second they touch down, despite the clamor

of voices that pass through their coiled claws.

Stranded

Hemmed in by measureless cold expanse,
rimming a circular plane, pole to pole,
Flat Earther-theorists Online now advance
a flat disk that has some climate control,
hovering above boundless depths below,
for which the fallen lack any control,
highlighting the first of all Freudian fears,
the fear of falling all felt their first year,
while a miniature sun and moon float
above land encased by an icy moat,
and stars twinkle like in a kid’s drawing–
a nightmarish scene that’s quite annoying.
There’s no base that the earth now sits upon,
and humankind is stuck here, quite alone.

Zeus is a Jerk

Plato said,

Once we were whole

four arms, four legs, and two heads

We had long conversations with ourselves

and assisted each other in daily life

We were never alone

 

But then Zeus

(the actual reason for 90% of drama in Greek mythology)

threw down thunderbolts

and split us in half

His reasoning being

we would gain too much power

 

Thus leaving us doomed

to wander the earth forever

in search of our other half

so that we could be whole again

 

Zeus just had to be a jerk, didn’t he?

prompt hour 6: the edge of the earth

At the edge of the earth

 

At the edge of the earth

at the end of the time and space continuum

water stands still     and the leaves of trees

hang unstirring.      Nothing breathes

nothing moves.

It must be something like

grief            when the large hole

that moved in synchrony with another

rose to greet him    breathed

almost in the same key

tempo determined by another’s

rhythms.

Now           the edge of earth opens

a vast desolation of darkness

where even heartbeats quiet

in the knowledge

that beyond that sharp knife edge

is nothing.

 

Should’ve Asked the Cat

It’s all their fault.

The cat rescue folks, that is.

They sent me out to deal with this,

to a site reported to have strays–by the dozens.

Up an old dirt road that almost wasn’t,

where possibly no one had ventured for ages.

Potholes that gulped down tires in stages.

The road was endless, went on forever.

But, eventually, ended.

Abrupt, with a cliff.

No sign whatsoever.

There, thick on the edge,

like crust on a pie,

were more cats than I’d count:

I won’t even try.

A herd of cats. Maybe five or six dozen!

Every fuzz-furry feline,

and all of their cousins.

I came ready, I thought, but that wasn’t the case:

Fifteen carriers would never clear out this place.

Nor the couple cans of tuna to lure them.

More like a convoy of U-Hauls,

and a zoo just to store them.

So, I got out of the car to capture a photos,

for proof later, when they’d say I was loco.

No one would ever believe this!

I walked toward the edge.

Cat’s dashed left and right,

Fleeing under a hedge.

The one’s too distracted, stayed where they were,

preoccupied, mesmerized, humming a purr.

They were right on the edge, peering down over.

Soon, I too, was peering down over the side.

When I saw what was there, I nearly died.

Hundreds and hundreds of pickety bits.

Not specifically one thing, but it sent me into fits.

Rocks, cups, marbles, picture frames

All in great piles—

having been pushed off the edge,

likely, for quite awhile,

by the mysterious instinct of each feral cat!

There were breakables, edibles, mittens, and hats…

Lots of homework.

Retainers.

Hillary’s files.

Hunter’s laptop.

Jewelry. Money in piles.

All those poetry words, perfect but lost.

And now knew where Hoffa’s body was tossed.

Treasure from tombs.

Alexandria’s tomes.

Atlantis!

A dodo!

My mother’s lost locket.

Pan and the Lost Boys

A 10mm socket.

I was ready to go, with photos for proof,

When the cat herd pushed ME to the underside roof,

And while ‘cat’apulted there, dangling and taunt

One more thing caught my eye: Jimmy’s shaker of salt!

Hour 6 Sonnet

My love, where are you?

Where do you lay your sleeping eyes,

How do I find the likes of one so true,

Why must I wait all this time,

 

My love, are you prepping yourself to be ready for me,

Can I at least have a sign you are near,

Will you go into this wholeheartedly,

I heard a whispering voice, is that yours I hear,

 

My love are you there,

Reveal yourself, don’t shay away from what could be a good thing,

Your previous or your current laid the foundations for you to be prepared,

I am here, look what new moments bring,

 

My love, hold on to your faith,

That we may find each other some day.

Poem 6

In my box of keepsakes under the bed I’ve placed a jar of origami stars, a ceramic tinkerbell figurine, her torso cracked and glued back together, a teddy bear whose soft styrofoam beads have left to his extremities leaving his limbs limp and heavy, a pair of toy blonde dogs, one with a red bow in its ear and one wearing a bowtie– a handsome couple. I store away my skyflake crackers and the commercial that comes with it, Pokemon cards and a misunderstanding of the game, playing DS under the sheets in the silence of night, becoming best friends in one school day, birthday parties at family fun center, and the kids menu at Denny’s. I’ve hidden my hundreds of notebooks that I treated like sketchbooks, my report cards with Bs, a kitschy license plate spelling in big capital letters “NINA”, my bubbly side, easy things to talk about, needing to be a good person, and the fear of forgetting what it was like to be a kid at twelve years old.

Poem for Hour Six (6/24)

Normally people are blind to avian presence,

Ordinarily chalked up to “Well, see, there’s no interesting birds around me,”

Really?

Then I guess you didn’t see the whistling duck whose breath was stuck, captured,

Hung in midair, by photographers who spent hours lying there, just to get the shot.

Atlantic puffins, silhouetted against sunbathed rocks, to say naught about,

Meadowlarks, stark and yellow.

Everyone takes crows for granted, common, yes, but grand, these things should be taught about,

Recent research tells us these survivors can solve for specific solutions with superior

Intellect.

Canada geese forming perfect V’s,

All throughout those short winter months.