The Poetry Marathon

Hour #3: The Promise of a Moon

I promise I will give you the moon on a stick

if you quit saying Jesus Christ, Fuck’s sake!

if your dirty clothes land in the hamper,

if you turn off cell phone at meals,

if you quit sleeping all day,

if you comb your hair,

if you get a job!

 

I promise to give myself the moon on a stick

if I quit my constant eating day in and out,

if I stop obsessing at 1 in the morning,

if I halt mooning around the house,

if I annul my habit of put downs,

if I give up consuming meat,

if I declutter the house.

hour 2: reminiscent of the liar

lying in wait but someone’s lying to me in this house
cleaning and clearing, trying, and someone’s lying
tired and tired
i’m not in understanding but I’m listening
trying not to be prying

Hour three

A Prescription For Poetry

A twenty minute interlude
To just sit and read,
Poems for the broken hearted, the sick and ill,
Those just plain broken.
Old and new, well-read and unknown,
Long, short and those in-between.
There is a poem here for everyone.

These are the doctor’s orders,
Take one poem. Two, three, four.
Take these words and rebuild
Yourself, letter by letter,
Rhyme by rhyme.

As something shifts in your heart,
To let the poem speak
For itself,
And open a door.

Dawning Wishes – Hour Three

Dawning Wishes

The sunlight peeks through the clearing
Of the trees that align with the road
The morning ahead, at last, nearing
With all of its greatness bestowed
The hopes and the dreams of tomorrow
Now present to start on their way
For time is a moment we borrow
At the start of every new day

The dawn is but a soft mixture
A blending of darkness and light
The dim giving way to the tincture
Of yellows and oranges and white
And in all those colors, a promise
An effort to give life one’s all
For the dawning renews with such purpose
That one must forge on with its call

Each journey in life, a beginning
A dawning of each day anew
A balance of losing and winning
Made wholly and uniquely you
And now, here you are at the dawning
The light smiling down through the trees
Will today be your day to slay demons
Or carry on with incredible ease

Whistle While You Work

Whistle while you work.

But I can’t whistle.

My tongue won’t bend

my lips won’t purse.

Melodies, bird-like trills,

like summer showers,

never

flow.

My jaw is tight,

my tongue is curled,

and my lips exhausted.

I am done

and you, my son,

just keep on whistling

and laughing at me.

 

 

 

 

 

21 Questions

 

Hello?

Are you there?

Do you know what happened?

Do you blame me?

Is it nice where you’ve gone?

Were the others there to greet you?

Is the snowfall still peaceful, and the night jeweled with stars?

Can you still hear the symphony in the evening crickets and the morning birds?

Are the blankets warm, and the food delicious?

Are you happy?

Do you ever go back to the home we shared?

Do you ever wonder where we went?

Do the doors stay open for you?

Can you still hear me?

Is that you in the shadow of my sight?

Are you still causing mischief?

Are you lonely?

Does your waking ache with grief, too?

Are you waiting for me?

Can you send me a sign?

Will you be there for me when it’s my turn?

 

(Hour 3)

2023 Full Marathon: Hour 3

Hour 3: Missing the Veranda

 

We still buy coffee from the green siren

that bears the same name – but we live

in a completely different place with an

entirely new environment – we have a porch

 

but less of a view. We have time, but not

as often as we once did. We have artistry

flowing through not only our veins but

the world around us too. There are actual

hummingbirds that appreciate our yard –

 

they bring me reminders of all the people

who dared to leave and they keep the

flowers in bloom – don’t ask me how

but they do. Maybe it’s magic. And I am

 

alive here. Even if it doesn’t quite feel l

ike home. I’m missing the veranda again

 

.-M. Rene’

Hour 3 – The Pit

Cold, invisible fingers wrap around my bare arms.

I try to blink away the inky veil in front of me.

I feel a warmth crawl down my leg and onto the rocky ground beneath me.

 

I try to move as an agonizing scream ushers forth from my lungs

And then silence as it wafts up toward the daylight peering in from above.

My surroundings press in around me.

 

The reality crushes me as I force my mind awake from unconsciousness.

He pushed me and he has left me.

The man I love has abandoned me to a cruel end.

 

A romantic hike during my dream vacation and it was all a lie.

He fooled me and I allowed it.

And now I will die for my stupidity.

 

He wanted to explore somewhere no one else had been.

He talked me into following him deep into the forest.

No one comes this way. No one will find me.

 

A vise restricts my throat as a sob pushes through.

I want to live. I am alive and I want to live.

Hopelessness washes over me as my heart pounds in my ears.

 

I see the sun through the trees at the opening to the pit above me.

Life continues unaware that I am helpless.

I can do nothing to save myself; all is lost.

 

As my eyes adjust to the blackness, I can see the blood pouring from my wounds.

My leg lays at an unnatural angle and the pain radiates through my entire body.

I take a breath and wish it all away, but it remains unchanged.

 

I am growing tired now; my life leaks from me and pools in the dirt.

The ground laps it up greedily.

I cannot stop it. I am helpless.

 

I no longer fight against the weight of my eyelids and let them close.

I slump back against the wall of the pit.

I breathe out and let the pit swallow me.

 

-Diana Kristine

Woman in a Circle

Hour 3

Woman in a Circle (photo by Frank Ching)

 

Chanced upon the

empty chair meant for her.

Hesitantly stepped inside the first circle.

Then, the next…then, the next…then, the next…

through the hashed lines of the inner sphere.

Her resting place.

Safe and comfortable.

Vacation.

Haven.

Womb.

So, this is what it felt like.

 

Sue Storts

09/02/2023

Poem 3: The Way Light Moves

I often walk to the forest near my house so I can’t

see the rooms of my house that confine me.

I’m not smart enough to speak Tree, but I want to learn

how the distance is never as great as we think

between where we are and where we want to be.

It’s difficult to listen to the clap of crows winging

away from here, but I want to learn how to do it.

Chain link fencing surrounds the new pit

earth movers made of this corner where a 100-foot

water tower will be raised. But they razed

100-year-old trees to make room. The pit

is walled in on all sides by the rocks and dirt

that once filled this space. The berms circle 15 feet high

on all sides. I want to trample to the top of the berms,

feel the dirt give way under my feet. None of this business

is neat. It’s as messy as the art room

of the elementary school a short walk from this pit.

The light is used to watching the children play in the yard.

The light climbs the trees all day, low to high to low again,

but how can it climb when the trees are now gone?

We keep our sorrows to ourselves, just like

the balsamroot and service berries keep

secrets they won’t speak.  I wish I could speak to them all,

tell them I’m sorry for this pit that wrecked their home.