The Poetry Marathon

Ode to the harvest

Harvest grain glows burnished bronze, in the sun’s warm glow
The tall proud stalks, crowned and tasselled bow to the passing wind.
The wayward wind ruffles their heads and gently passes on.
I hear the rustling of gossipy leaves, as they draw near one another,
Ive seen them young and green and tender in the cool of the spring weather.
Soon enough they’ll be bunched and tied in rows of dry corn shocks
Ready to feed the mighty on the earth, but knowing well the worth
Of all living things,the farmer will surely leave for the littlest ones
The last of the harvest gleanings.

Low Note–Hour 21

Covid variant

delta now spreading new dread

worldwide throats tighten

Hour Twenty-One, Irregular Ode

Ode To My Scars

Once, you were pink and puckered,
drawing surrounding flesh up tight
against you, you needy whores,
but you have since silvered and loosened,
releasing your neighboring hostages
and gracefully fading into the background,
as good scars should.

You had your purpose, knitting me whole
once more after some truly messed up
s**t would have rent me apart, bleeding,
but I can hold my own now, thank you.
You’re free to go,
though I know you won’t.

Some of you are my bosom buddies,
but the largest of you bisects my torso
into upper and lower halves,
a reminder of what I endured
to have my sons.
At least you have the decency to smile.

Frozen Wheat

Seasons come and go

Frozen wheat harvest sorrow

Nature talks and breathe

@Maritza – Hour Twenty-one

Flying along wind

Flying on the wind,

It is a heavenly dream.

Racing with the birds in fluffy clouds,

Seems to be happier and it cannot be fair.

Watching the children’s kite,

And the travelling in flight.

Birds chirping sound,

Enter the ear aloud.

Enjoying with the wind blow,

We fall in wind’s love.

 

21. Ode to Butter… the worst Horatian ode ever written

Oh Butter, how I love you so
though doctors say you have to go.
I’ll cherish you always
through the rest of my days
Your sweetness warms my oatmeal bowl.
Your creaminess does make me whole.
Melt well on my toast, Dear,
And on my rump roast rear.
You make my cookies taste divine.
You’re perfect with French bread and wine.
You make everything better.
This is my love letter.
You’re worthy of a heart attack.
Your extra pounds round out my back.
Oh Butter, lovely Butter
For me there is no other.

Tied

there is string running

through my ears

can you see it

can you feel the tangle of

knots that bind my spirit

to this body

string that ties me

to fate

my eyes covered by

the veil but my heart

it feels every thread

rope burn on my neck

my shoulders

my back

tied too tightly to life

death seems impossible so young

just be still and listen

and hear the snap of ties ripping

one by one by one

Ode to Tala

When first I saw your gleaming white hair, laid along

the pink expanse of your

skin,

with your lovely long nose and sweet little ears,

‘twas then I decided you would be mine.

For long I had to wait, not to rush the nurturing of

nature and

time,

but oh did it pain me to leave you inside, that cold

and uncaring place with no name but you knew

upon my return, with me you would

go.

The ache it grew stronger, each night an agonizing

torture knowing what gift waited for

me,

but the vestige of time nearly wore me down and

thrice I near threw caution to the wind and claimed

you as my very

own. This road to you was treacherous, odorous, no

arduous, perhaps odorous and

onerous.

Yet here I stand before you, your papers in my

hand. Place the sweet pink collar around your neck

with a steady hand and steadfast

love,

The matching leash clicks into place, you stand

proudly by my side. It’s you I beckon with a smile,

“Come on girl, let’s go home!”

 

Hour 21 – Ode to My Spice Cabinet

My spice cabinet, filled to the brim with sweet and savory magic, you are a wonder.

The grinder and you have taught me to make my own masalas–chai, garam, Arab and Chinese five-spice. You open doors of the possible and make my cooking soar to summits I never knew possible.

You give me confidence to measure by the spoonful. Not the wimpy sprinkling of my past cooking life, the bland life I had before I came to know you.

Occasionally one of your mismatched recycled jars escapes when nudged too far. If it’s plastic it will bounce delighted across the floor; if glass, it goes out with gusto and flair–filling the kitchen with aromatic joy for a day or two.

Thank you, spice cabinet, for filling my world with color, aroma, flavor, and beauty.

---

Wow, be sure to read this beautiful Ode to Shea Butter by Angel Nafis. 

Hour 19: Four have broken away

Four have broken away

From the hive

To go wading in the sea

Can’t you see?

The soft surf has not yet

Erased the lines they made in the sand

 

Curb your worry

The little one will not drown;

The foam’s too gentle to pull him away.

He is not alone.

 

Will they go back to the hive

After playing with the shallow ocean

Or will they move on

Finding freedom in the wide horizon?