The Poetry Marathon

Umbilicus (poem 5 of 12, half marathon)

Dark hole,
fleshy drain,
once vital passage
designed to receive, cut
then clamped
the pipeline turned
an angry purple,
then fell off.

The opening
capped with a whirl
of skin
now collects lint
and dirt in its folds.

Pick at the grit,
the skin breaks easily
but no blood,
just clear fluid
that turns crisp
like dried snot
or plasma.

The spot
Where I was once
tied me to
mother,
a place for taking
the blood from her
body, the breath
from her lungs
a straw sucking
at her,
maybe that’s why
she left.

Behind the fleshy cap,
liver and bladder
filtered waste.
In some bodies, the
vestigial artery
doesn’t properly
shut, warm piss can
seep out of the pit.

 

Legacy’s Lash Hour 7

Legacy’s Lash (Valkyrie)

Amid life’s errant metamorphosis, I extend my lash,
Practising the bladed whip’s gait, I distend my lash.

You watch, titivated and stirred, by your warrior,
Wedged stance and motivated, you commend my lash.

Behind my bright eyes I plot your gruesome downfall,
All you witness is an artist’s kata, as I tend my lash.

Distracting you, my primary task, misdirected magician,
My intentions impervious, as I comprehend my lash.

Fidelity offered and devotion bequeathed, I ascend,
Depending on you as you fend for me, I transcend my lash.

Princess Stories

content warning: talks about fairy tales

fairy tale heroes fall to fairy tale morals:
the past seems to preach
of docile women and their rescuing men.
but cinderella wasn’t docile –
she chose kindness above cruelty,
and though she couldn’t drag herself
from the ashes of the fire
she was still able to wave that white flag.

and in the original story of rapunzel
after the prince falls from the tower
she escapes on her own,
and cries for him to give him salvation.
just because these stories
have standards of a different time
does not mean they were never heroes.

it was not damsels in distress,
with princes on white horses,
but strong, stubborn women
who kept to their morals.
snow white talked to the huntsman,
who was so moved by her story,
that he lied to the queen he feared and loved.

and sleeping beauty may have fallen to a curse,
one to only awaken with a kiss,
but she was the one who sought answers
for why she had always been different.
if one can take anything from fairy tales,
perhaps the better moral is not
“princesses require rescue by men” but
“we thrive when we work together”.

Hour 6: From a 12 Year Old You

Dear Aisha, 

I heard we moved to a new house, 

Did the paint on the walls fade again to a wispy yellow?

I know how hard mama tries to keep it bright and shining, 

But the walls were always whining, 

They often said we dreamt too loud 

But how could we not? 

Papa’s bookshelves only grew taller and taller, 

Does he still keep his keys on the top and forget? 

I bet, 

You’re still angry that he gave away those books 

That we read, hiding in little nooks 

From words that weren’t flooded by mama’s tears 

Angry that everything we said became shears 

Do you still like to look out windows

But not really go outside?

Tell me that you tried

To find me

How many seas

Have you crossed? 

I heard many

There’s plenty, of oceans inside of us

I will let this one flow

You can go 

I am writing from across time 

Your younger self, your crime 

Was none 

I forgive you, pay it forward to you. 

#6

I want to lay with you on a hand stitched quilt on an open field full of sunflowers. My Darling Dear like the flower this too is our finest hour, and although we too will someday wither and fade, but my darling dear, my love, No not today, No not today.

Poem 6. Dear Whoever You Were

I remember you. I remember your squishy lap, and you always having a warm towel when I played in the sprinklers. I remember snuggling my face into your soft neck. I remember you singing to us on the phone, and in the videos on the phone, and at our house.

You smiled to me, and tickled my feet when you swept underneath my high chair. You let me play wildly, splashingly in the bathtub. I remember you reading to us from whatever book we brought to you,  however many times we asked. I remember you reading to us on the phone, and in the videos on the phone. I remember you sent us fun boxes of cookies and chocolates and t shirts with turtles and flowers on them from your Maui home.

After the blast, when everything stopped, and everything was gone, I still remembered you. I don’t remember who you are, but I remember you loved me, and I was safe in your love. If you can, please come find me. I would like to have you again. I miss you.

I still love you,
D.

Hour 6 (2022)- My Forever Friend

Dear Felicia,

 

Remember the days of playing Wonder Dog

Jumping off the pump in the playground

Crawling around on all fours and barking

Laughter filling the air.

Remember when you moved and we lost touch

You returned and it was like our friendship

Never even paused or was interrupted

By this crazy life.

Throughout almost half a century your presence

Has been a quiet bit of happiness.

Even when we have been far apart

At least in distance.

I know this last year has been hard for you

Always know that even if I am not there

You are always in my heart

A forever friendship.

 

Your forever friend,

Deanna

12 Ways of Looking at Birds

VI.

Bird Tower of Babble at the Bird Tree

perched on by immigrants and varied species

speaking disparate languages

 

As with humans, language reveals:

 

The soft bizz bizz of gentle Chicadees,

and a quiet low chirp from flitting hummingbirds –

it’s their wings that hum!

 

The Blue Jay is assertive and loud

Robins sing pretty songs at a distance

House Sparrows skitter quietly on the ground

 

Woodpeckers make an edgy sound, and Ravens

well, Ravens are just discordant and loud.

Ravens do not sing!

 

 

 

Letter to Me

Where are you?
Sometimes I wonder…
I wonder how you and I got here.
I try to hear all the things that were never said.
Could I come back?
Would it be like before I left?
Would your days still begin and end with me?
Is your heart still as warm as our clasped hands?
Did I break your heart?
I know I made you think I was always going to be there.
I know I let you down.
Do you still miss having me around?
Do you think time can mend what was lost?
I saw you once and you were as cold as an early spring frost.
Can you just tell me if all the love we had is truly lost?
Are the walls you rebuilt impenetrable this time around?
Because it’s a box of letters waiting to be read.
It’s a message in a bottle just stuck in my head.
It’s three little words begging still to be said.
It’s everything until not much is left.
It’s months flying by with my arms still reaching out to you even now.

The Price

The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?,” there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.