The Poetry Marathon

Summer sun on the side of the slope
Frames the scene
Pleasant, soft, bucolic
The soft susurration of the grasses
Lulling a sense of security,albeit false, in the police who waited
As the divers dragged the depths of the dam
Depositing the decomposing dead on the dirt for detection

The coppers circled cawing like crows
If they’d been dressed in black, not blue
I may’ve likened them to ravens of myth and memory
Harbingers of wisdom and death

Picking over the ‘past person’ the police
Cease to circle
And call a car to carry the corpse away to the coroner

Moving to action the murder of crows cops scatters
A murder of their own to investigate
Is a murder what they investigate?
Or what they are?
They chase new leads
The different
The interesting
The *shiny*
Yup – they are crows
…or maybe ravens
Either way the difference is only the matter of a pinion
And they both want crime to be nevermore

Perfectly Manicured nails

Swipe a path on the dash

In her shitty green 

Weather-worn 

stick shift 

She taught herself

to drive

Collecting dust that she discards

Neatly and primly

With a golden smile

‘cause she cares for all things

That are hers

We were each other’s–

Always

And in three years time

Our childhood’s were renewed

In familiar spaces and 

aged faces

I was sad to let you go

She who completes me like

A broken note made steady

I sit a meditate on the feeling

Our laughter echoing 

all the way down the I-95

In her shitty green 

Weather-worn 

stick shift 

She taught herself

to drive

The sun peeks through trees

Leaves frolic, their fabric sings

Shadows sway and twirl

Image Courtesy of Pixabay

In the heart of the city, where neon lights pierce the night, there lies a shadow that refuses to fade. The unsolved crime, a mystery that haunts the alleys and alleyways, eludes the grasp of justice like a wisp of smoke slipping through clenched fingers.

Whispers in the dark,

Secrets buried deep in time,

Mystery persists.

The detective’s board, covered in photographs and red strings, tells a tale of obsession. Clues dangle like tantalizing promises, but the truth remains shrouded in enigma. Witnesses speak in riddles, and alibis crumble like old leaves beneath the weight of suspicion.

Rain-soaked streets glisten,

Reflecting unanswered questions,

Cold case lingers on.

Years have passed, yet the unresolved crime endures, a puzzle without a solution. It lives in the minds of those who dare to remember, a ghostly presence that refuses to be forgotten, a mystery that will forever remain a part of this city’s lore.

Midnight’s silent plea,

Unsolved crime’s haunting echo,

Mysterious still.

Antoinette LeRoux © 2023

My friend proposed to her girlfriend the same day I was driving cross country in silence,

the cab cologne of basil leaves fills the truck.

It’s the freshest air I’ve tasted,

now that I’m used to living in the city.

I am picturing the fresh basil leaves from her garden,

pressed against white sheets.

Shaped like a heart–

And how she said yes.

Love isn’t like the movies, it’s better.

Specific and imperfect.

The pang of admiration I felt seeing that post.

How she didn’t need roses or money to have love fill her life.

My inner monologue reading the words ‘bay-zil leaves’ in my southern accent.

I reminisce how the cats tried to eat each leaf of the plant next to me,

how you would pluck a few for meals, teeth marks and all.

Nurturing your plant babies with each pruning,

your green thumb keeping time with each pulse of syllables and how they sound when you say ‘ba-z-i-l-l’

and my worry of your approval when I say it my way.

The heat threatening my thought

with each bump,

I won’t hear your feet hit the hard wood each morning.

Each box in back,

a space you will no longer fill.

The tendrils lean into me while I push the pedal to the floor.

I continue east, knowing the sun will rise with you.

The girl’s untouched skin

never answered her questions,

so for the past dozen weeks,

she guards her own body.

She walks from her suburban home

to the nearby field, stepping off

the sidewalks’ stable physics and

away from the streetlights’ particles

and waves that want her safe.

The studied grasses recognize her,

counsel her to cleanse

her briny face with aspen bark.

All night, the geography of trees

listens to her through the feral ears

of possum and coon and quail

who quickened at her arrival

then grow still, awed by the girl’s

own light no one can extinguish.

For hours, the moon lingers,

diffusing her light through the trees’

branches, like spottled gleaming light

refracted in the eyes of wild dogs.

When the moon departs, the girl

picks up a psalm in the meadow

by the aspen grove and bemoans

the darkness before she walks

back to her dark quiet home.

A faint cloud of perfume
And traces of sweet talc
Well-worn lipstick
Her best jewelry gone
The glass box open
With beads spilling over
Left in such haste
Why had she slipped away
There’s no time to waste
Clues such as keys
A phone, a clutch
How far can you go
Not having much

The puppy likes to play in water,

including eating it from the hose,

Watering the garden is interesting,

He’ll interrupt where the water goes.

The adult dog enjoys soaking up the sun,

where there’s water she’ll run away.

They are a crazy pair, different as night and day.

It’s fun to watch them play.

The puppy likes to wrestle wildly, to pin his sister to the ground.

The adult dog likes to race, running round and round.

The puppy is a vacuum, inhaling everything he can,

The adult dog likes to graze, leaving kibble in her pan.

One cuddles closely, the other independent through and through,

One was a challenge, so I got crazy and now have two.

I saw it first.

The bow of the canoe jutted out of the heavy fog creeping toward me in a predatorial fashion.  Vaccumed silence surrounded me broken slightly by the distant cry of the mournful loon. My hands began to tremble becoming even more clammy as my breath caught and constricted in my chest. Time stopped. And, in my mind I imagined hearing haunting organ music that seemed to blend and belong to this eerie part of the lake. Early morning mist still marched  across the lake like battle weary warriors as the canoe drew closer. Once it slid alongside my weather worn dock, I timidly leaned forward  to get a better look at the inside of the canoe. My body began to shake as I recognized the faint sight of blood and multiple finger prints.I leaned in closer and suddenly felt my whole body being lifted and thrown over the canoe. Multiple witnesses would later be recorded as saying that they saw a shadowy hand rise out  of the water and pull me down into its depths. And, on the tails of the wind, they heard this wailing chant:

Return to the lake my dearest one

Remember the lake sirens as we have sung.

Return to our lake and let it be done.