The Poetry Marathon

My Mother’s Roots

My Mother’s Roots

My Mother’s Roots can be found in her boots.

I remember her Black and Brown boots before the change.

Her shirts were always tucked into her skin tight jeans held in place by numerous belt colors.

I imagined her Black boots allowed her to navigate between worlds, the distant past, or the anticipated future.

My mother controlled depression and anxiety until she was consumed by the present.

Her Brown boots were more subtle and playful.

She was grounded into the Earth, feeling deeply in a multidimensional space.

My Mother’s Roots can be found in her boots.

Out in the Rain (Hour 1)

I must have been six or so
when, unsoiled yet by the world’s many worries,
I played in the rain, naked and wild

with children my age or more or less
chasing termite alates freshly
unleashed from their colonies

we ran around in the rain
chanting in our native tongue
praying the rain to bring us bounties

a group of termites would fly over our
heads, lazily, yet beyond the reach
of our tiny limbs

we would wait, patiently, raindrops
dripping down our little bodies, knowing
it’s only a matter of time before

these elusive termites would lose grip and land,
lose their wings and become easy
pick into our waiting bowls

the rain would continue to splatter
away as we return home with our catch
our outside refreshed, our insides hopeful

Water (2022 Poem 1)

Water

luscious commodity of life
washing our feet clean
wildflowers grow
bringing hope
as deer play
with water
we exist

yet
storms run wild
rains fall and fall
streets become rivers
waves beat upon the house
islands were not there before
refrigerators float along the shore

(Prompt: Write a poem about being in water.)

Good Days – Hour One

I’m only with him on the good days. 

 

The days I swim across the chasm 

Filled with well-intentioned promises

That never carried us forward.

 

When I choose forgiveness over defiance,

Unzip my bulletproof vest and

Surrender myself for a moment. 

 

I let myself be lulled into complacency, 

Soothed by his temporary warmth while

We sit under a fickle sun

Both of us keeping our eyes on 

The not-so-distant storm.

 

We know the respite is short,

The bitter reality of addiction

Billowing back in stronger each time.

 

Our safe harbor grows smaller.

 

How many more times can my body

Carry me across this distance to him

Until he must meet me halfway

Or not at all? 

 

Am I worthy of that distance? 

I will be lost in the deluge of 

Broken promises and half-truths,

Calling his name until it’s only

My own voice echoing back.

Amalgamation (1)

I am changed,

a tattoo replaces the color i was born

a machine replaces the limb that was destroyed

a human, still, i think

Hour One ( Small Coffee)

Sip Sip on a small Coffee
Straight from the pot
Hot and steaming
Look at the faces beaming
just a small coffee
to ease the stress
And start the day.
Feeling alive
Feeling the drive

Copyright(c)Roxann Lawrence 2022

“Universal Sea Of Nothing”

Bound to lose these strong stories,
I’m a nomad from mainland “worries”.
The course I took was heavy… heavy,
I found places, walls pain with ivy.

When you look too hard,
There’s a terrible mystery.
Frame, frame seen on me.
Game, Game, life can be.
I’m a nomad from someone else’s story.

From your tears, I found my name,
Game, Game, What a shame.
Unknown stories not heard from my side,
No, no, I’m drowned just to hide.

Heat, heat, water drained
You took me hard to release.
In my sea of waterless brain, you see.
A story that made of something,
A universal see of nothing.

Writer: M.E. Flores
Hour01, Prompt01

Mud Puddles

Small town.

Houses surrounded by dirt roads occasionally

sparkling with small pieces of gravel.

Tumbleweeds blowing across empty cotton fields,

Loud claps of thunder.

Flashing  furious lightening.

 

Rain pouring from the sky.

Kids racing outside in oversized  yellow rain boots.

splashing in ginormous rivers of still red colored water in flat ditches.

a laughter.

Dogs barking and chasing laughing children

amazed at the wonderful treat.and slight  hint of cool  refreshment.

bullfrogs long hidden filling the air in croaky hallelujahs.

Swimming to Africa across the street.

catching tadpoles while listening for the warning rattle from the grassy sides of the water.

 

Mothers calling from porches with icy strawberry popsicles that ran in sticky streams down mud caked faces.

Day ending i bubble  baths’ giggles, and stories.Simple pleasure

Mud puddles.

 

 

 

Rain (Hour 1)

childhood is but a distant past

when we flaunted our naked innocence

before a dying world,

shrieking at the silvery darts

dotting our bodies with pimples of rain.

 

now the rain is gone

the rainbow of life gradually fades

like our innocence

and on our dried-out lips the question hangs:

where did our innocence go?

 

The weight of the baseball

There is a loneliness to the mound
when you start to loose your control
Your breaking ball that refused to break
now sits five rows up in the stands
Now, all of a sudden you cannot throw a strike
having walked the next two batters

The pitching coach has come and gone
reminding you to take a breath and refocus
Your infielders have grown quiet
they know how important this at bat is
The only sound you can hear
is your grunting as you throw each pitch

This will be your last batter
you can tell by the look on Skip’s face
And by sheer force of will
the first two pitches finds the strike zone
Breathing out slowly as you come set
you go into your motion to get the third out