The Poetry Marathon

Weather Report

(a haiku)

“What’s the temp out bro?”

“It’s melt your skin off degrees!”

“Chill dude, just askin’!”

Where do we go from here?
I ask does heaven truly exist up there?
What happens after death?
Anything beyond people bringing us wreath?
What if neither heaven nor hell exist?
How much shall I deny myself freedom before I exit?

I always wished I had told Mrs. T and Ms. P
Exactyly what they did for me. 

Taking a shy, withdrawn kid with
Her nose perpetually stuck in a book
And giving her purpose.

They were the first people who told me,
“You could really be a writer,”
And I was never even able to thank them.

All I can hope is that this thank you letter
Finds them wherever they are,
Wildflower fields in deep forests
Somewhere in the clouds. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It came Six months short
Of when the vet said she’d live
sixteen year old Lucy
fell down fourteen stairs.

The fall brought to a close
what had been months of despair.
“Don’t let her jump!”
“Carry her, please, to her chair.”

Gone was the worry, now,
just like the bear
that she chastened away,
without worry or care

Or the fisher rebuked,
the red fox in its den,
the legion of deer,
who won’t tempt her again.

Don’t cry for Lucy.
She had the best life.
The best life of any dog.
Of any of us, a life.

Walking between log cabins,
raindrops streak silver
from roof to garden bed
watering a nest of ferns.
Kayaking across clear waters,
the lake smooth as mirror-glass,
only broken by leaping fish
and the wake of the boat.
It is a matter of respect
to keep the paddle quiet
in its careful, gentle dips.
A lone loon sings his morning song;
A blue heron flutters in the mist.
All is framed by towering green,
conifers tall, dark, and strong,
They are awake with chatter:
Chipmunk, red squirrel, bluebird,
chipping sparrow, yellow warbler.
These dirt roads are perfect
for the hares, the toads,
the circle of white admirals
fanning new wings in the dust.
Puddles teeming with green
are adopted by the ducks
and geese with little ones to raise.

They say this place is special
for the people who built it lived here,
but why must value be derived
from a dead family name
instead of the multitude,
the natural history which dwells enduring,
in this space?

Here is where I can sit for hours,
here in this place, on this bench,
where I watch the Ohio River
glide by.

Sometimes when I am especially quiet
I see families of white-tailed deer
stepping delicately into the river
for a morning drink.

Sometimes geese fly along the top of the water
and then plunge into the river,
honking at each other
to stay out of their glidepaths.

Sometimes the town church bells play
delicate songs that I can’t quite place
but are somehow also familiar
and sweet.

Sometimes I walk through wildflowers
on the grounds of the old hospital
and the blue jays call out all around me
and wild turkeys scurry across the path.

I know all the stories here:
those who drowned in the river,
those who married and raised families,
those who still haunt the graveyard.

I can imagine growing old here,
spending peaceful hours watching the river,
being with the river,
slowly becoming part of the river itself.

One two step

satin finishes follow the swaying hips

sacheying fondly on marble

graceful!

hands full on the waltz.

I wonder where the people are

Who said I was too much

Too loud when I had laughed

Too wild when I had loved

Too quick to fall

Too slow to give in

Too childish whenever

I danced with the wind

Too messy when I spent

The last 3 days baking

Too much of a giver

Though they were fine taking

I wonder sometimes

If they ever found porridge

Someone who held all their extra

In storage

If ever they learned

From all their mistakes

If they ever miss real

In their mountain of fake

If not yet, give it time

Don’t worry, they’ll see

Infinite beats

Mediocrity

She is Woman

Divine by nature

Her womb, a portal between worlds

Her eyes,  an observatory

Her hands, a conservatory

Her wrinkles are storytellers

Her voice carries her ancestors

She is Woman