The Poetry Marathon

Nest Hair

Brushing my hair at five was no easy task

Dads arms were as soft as non laboring hands pulling and twisting my head and neck to stay straight

A straight part meant everything
It’s too soft to stay styled so we gotta do this spook
He’d called me that since I was born off colored (nearly white) for a black girl
He line the middle part with stinky blue grease then condition the ends with petroleum jelly

Anything left in the comb or brush
He’d lump in his ashtray and burn right away

I’d always cry
Do you want birds nest for your hair
He’d always reply

Long time ago
Even before I was born
Little girls didn’t want their hair burnt
Wanted to save it or clog up the sea
Well one girl saved all her dying hair underneath her pillow
They lived by the equator so she slept with her window open year round
One day a swoop of birds came into town and claimed the perfect nesting place
Thing is there were so many birds after they used all the hair under the pillows
The rest of the flock rested in her hair
She could never get them to leave and now she never leaves her home because she’s home to the birds

If you burn your ends it gives your power back to the air to circulate through you again
If you don’t your hair will get so tangled it’ll resemble a birds nest

I don’t want no nesting hair

I’d cry and let him reply and finish braiding my freshly pruned pigtails

Prompts for Hour Fifteen

Text Prompt

“Write a poem about someone or something you have lust for.” by Daryl Cole Curnow.

Image Prompt

Photo by Filipp Romanovski on Unsplash

Hour 14

Chicken

Crispy, seasoned,

Smelling, biting, chewing,

Baking, frying, boiling, grilling,

Yummy!

Someday

We’d be far out of here

into a better life.

Just picture it.

A sturdy veranda perfect for late-night singalongs.

Waking up & smelling the roses through the pine-sol scented air.

A fenced-in backyard perfect for the tykes.

 

Between those tv dinners & some good solid sack time,

We’d gather around the tube watching the classics while

making new memories as indelible as those episodes. &

when all was said & done & the sun had tucked itself away

for the evening.

 

We’d settle into bed knowing we had the most sacrosanct existence in the world.

Somewhere that’s green.

HOUR FOURTEEN ~ Who Knows What’s Good Or Bad?

WHO KNOWS WHAT’S GOOD OR BAD?

 

a farmer takes his horse to the county fair.

the horse wins first place.

his neighbor comes to congratulate him,

but the farmer only shrugs and says,

“Who knows what’s good or bad?”

 

that night the prize-winning horse is stolen.

the neighbor comes to console the farmer,

but the farmer only smiles and says,

“Who knows what’s good or bad?”

 

a few days later, the farmer’s horse returns,

having escaped the thieves, and leading

a herd of wild horses softly into the farmer’s pen.

the neighbor comes to celebrate the farmer’s good fortune,

but again the farmer only says,

“Who knows what’s good or bad?”

 

the next day the farmer’s son tries his best

to break and tame some of the new wild mares.

he is thrown from a horse and breaks his leg.

the neighbor comes again to support the farmer,

but yet again the farmer only replies,

“Who knows what’s good or bad?”

 

within the week the army comes to the village.

there is a war, and every able-bodied man is called

to serve their country in the coming battles.

because the farmer’s son has a broken leg,

the soldiers pass him by… and the neighbor

wonders to himself, astonished,

“Who knows what’s good or bad?”

 

Change It Up

I might have to rearrange,

I said to my sister.

You know, just a little change.

She looked at me like

Oh mister!

I’ve seen that look before and she said,

you changed it last week

and moved that chair

and now the bookcase is over there.

I looked at her and smiled from ear to ear.

I know, but I just got a stuffed deer.

The big kind and if I put it in that corner

I’ll have to move the table.

I’ll need your help if you are able.

She wrinkled up her nose

and gave a half hearted sneer.

I guess I can help but be a dear;

I need to eat

and if you move the table

I’ll still need a seat.

So maybe tomorrow we can work on this plan.

Maybe tomorrow you and I can

rearrange everything

but the kitchen sink.

We’ll move it together.

Can I have a drink?

“It only takes a couple minutes” POEM 2

No need to hurry
no kids are home to slow us
the house is still full
of high temps and raised desires
sly smiles locked eyes still light out

Saltines

Saltines! The only crackers ever anywhere in the 1960s,
when women wore skirts and children didn’t matter.
Well, at least I didn’t matter – or so I was told. (ouch!)

Saltines with squares of American cheese!
And then came Velveeta… that liquid gold
when mixed with Ro-tel tomatoes created movie night.

Oh, saltines! You, with homemade chili on a frozen night!
Impossible to replace the bland, salty balance
against jalapenos, beef, and beans.

Saltines! A step beyond water crackers that do nothing
for a piece of cheese, with a few exceptions,
like a nice aged brie, or Manchego from La Mancha.

So, diet be damned! Saltines are always on hand!

This 14th Hour

The hour has now come
where the unprepared will falter
but those with foresight will be rewarded
Look to your neighbor to see
if they will fail or if they will stand tall
Do not dwell on the tribulations you overcame
and only focus on what comes next

Idun and Bragi, Hour Fourteen

Idun and Bragi

In the Old Norse mythology of my ancestors,
Idun holds as high a place of importance as any,
though few people now know why.
She both owned and dispensed the fruits
that imparted immortality to the gods of Asgard.
Without Idun, the gods would no longer sustain
never ending life and power.

How appropriate, then, that she was also the wife
of Bragi, court poet and minstrel who chronicled
the lives of the gods. For the Norse,
writing also imparted a form of immortality.
Their Viking descendants were known to leave
ancient graffiti, secret carvings depicting
their runic names in places that might never be seen.

A Viking father of long ago inscribed a standing
stone with spiraling runes describing the life
of his deceased son and his valiant death in battle
in the hope that by so doing, his son might never
actually die. We speak of him still, and so still he lives.
And now here I sit, a sister to Idun and Bragi, scribbling my name,
staking my claim, to a longed for form of immortality.