The Poetry Marathon

Normal (Hour 7)

When my shadow broke from me, cast out, misshapen,
I prayed for a mold to make me right,
placed faith in an average that could dull such extremes,
a chameleon’s tone concealing everything unique.

There was a moment in the car 
when we were driving down to the lake,
you read poetry aloud from a book I kept in the console,
I think we found it then, 
it touched us for an instant
as we engaged in a place we never reached before.

It wasn’t normal, but perhaps was the idea 
of how I thought normal might feel.

Sourdough

dad would make

sourdough bread

twice a week

and I’d always beg

for the hardened ends

crispy, still steaming warm

melting anything spread

on top, and I’d always

eat it plain to savor

the cloud of taste left

by the crust

nowadays dad does

not bake anymore but he

still forms atmosphere

in the house by placing the needle

on every record he

decides to play on the

vintage record player once belonging

to my grandmother

whenever the beat

gets too intense I’ll see his eyes

turn periwinkle to forget-me-not

face turn

sunflower to daisy

hands turn

lily to geranium

dad becomes common

in grief, another broken man

walking to a grave of a person

who would not have let him cry

dad knows how to make good sourdough

keep a batch of it behind

to put into the next attempt at bread

and to save spoonfuls of the next dough, also

that is how he rembers grandma

throws a spoonful of grief

into every day like it’ll make it more digestible

like he’ll be able to bake

bread from it for a long time

if only he can make it last.

 

Hour Eleven: Pandemic Play

Paint a portrait.

A sunflower splash.

No azaleas for the spring.

Daisy do, I dream of you.

No where to go

to play when the sickness

is here to stay, so

I color my pods’

chords, in fresh foray

in the summer time, too,

when winter cools

the pastels blue, I wait

the icy days through

till robins chirp a tune

the blue of trampled masks

in the gutter strewn.

Let’s play an afternoon away,

splashing color to a song

to frame the lonely long

year, electronically sung

through organ pipe soot,

dusty choir echoes, I put

my ear to the ground,

where once the sound of

children played, dancing

sun beams in the garden–

but not today.

We play.

Another Job at Night

Instead of skyscrapers.

I would rather see small storefronts where they know you.

Clouds shining as darkness settles.

Forest rangers come and go trying to get supplies before another hard night.

Trying to find things in the dark is like a single needle in a haystack.

The Search for Nana’s Sourdough (Hour 11)

You could barely tell that the periwinkle blue sky was dotted with clouds as the sun started to rise when the Forest Ranger stepped his gumboots past the storefront of Cottage Teas.

This wasn’t his normal beat, yet the aroma of baking sourdough lured him here this early morning. He had never noticed this store before. He didn’t usually frequent this part of town at all, and certainly not at this hour. In fact, he tried to avoid coming into town altogether.

As he entered, several small round tables spread with delicate flowered teacups, teapots, saucers, jams and jellies, each with their own tiny spreading knives, made him feel like a skyscraper. Small bunches of drying herbs hung from the corners of the walls and minature drawers of loose tea leaves sat on each sideboard contributing to his growing sense of claustrophobia.

He braved the great unknown every day, but he felt completely out of place in this small shop. He was afraid to move.

If only he could find a sourdough as good as Nana’s. He missed Nana’s sourdough. No one in his family knew the recipe. No one had cared to save it.

Despite tasting several storebought sourdough loaves and surviving almost all the single ladies attempts at sourdough (why would anyone mix in olives or black licorice?) in this town, he still couldn’t find one as good as Nana’s.

It was official. He was a sourdough snob. A purist. Finding Nana’s sourdough was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

But he thought he smelled it here.

“Excuse me,” he called out, clearing his throat. He didn’t want to move further in and risk breaking anything, yet he didn’t want to yell and scare the bejeezus out of whoever was baking this early in the morning either.

Around the corner, from the back, stepped a petite blond woman with flour on her left cheek. “May I help you?” she inquired with a lift of her eyebrow and a hand on her hip. It wasn’t the warmest welcome he had ever had.

“Do I smell sourdough baking here?”

“Yes, you do.” she replied, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Is that a crime?”

He realized that he was still clad in his Forest Ranger uniform, including his sidearm. “No m’am. I’m sorry. I was just hoping for a loaf of your sourdough bread.”

“We open at 7:30 AM.”

“But . . . ”

“You can come back and place your order then. Sourdoughs sell out quickly, so I recommend you pre-order several days in advance,” she replied directly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to tend to the sourdough and pastries.” She turned and disappeared back around the corner.

Ugh! He may or may not have found Nana’s sourdough, but he wouldn’t know for several more days. One thing he was pretty sure about, he found Nana’s attitude!

(Sorry! I know it’s more of a start to a story than a poem, but inspiration struck & I ran with it. I hope you enjoyed it!)

HOUR #11 (using the words: Skyscraper, Periwinkle, Cloud, Needle, Spread)

Periwinkle is the flower of death they say

but I have not seen them at the cemetery

or perhaps I pass them unnoticed

so seamlessly they fit the landscape of loss.

 

From a high point, you can see the city’s skyscrapers in the distance

each one threaded like a needle between gravestones.

On a perfect day, I imagine raising my hand to the sky

and grasping a cloud, momentarily,

before setting it free.

 

On a sloping trail, new graves have appeared

spread among this idyllic plateau

all too quickly filling the space

with tenderly kept memorials.

 

At night I see the grave lights

dots of illumination across the blackness

souls lit to the sky.

Letting Go

I open my hand
Allowing the world to spill out
Onto the ground
In shards of brokenness
And heartache
Bitterness
And self-deprecating antics-

Some say there’s always hope
But some things aren’t worth hoping for
So,I carry on.

I open the other hand
And welcome the beauty of life
It spills over and I cup my hand
Under the faucet
Running fast before it slips down the drain
Of love
And a future.

I can say there’s always hope
But some things aren’t worth hoping for
So, I carry on
And continue hoping anyway.

Hour One

The people are hungry for the end of the world
Eager for revolution and rapture
Like a culture of craven, ravenous wolves
Ever poised on the brink of disaster

Perhaps its a remnant of some darker time
Which calls to us from across the ages
A reminder that the annuls of time
Are written on hearts and not on pages

All great empires are destined to fall
I assure you, ours, too, will surely crumble
Indeed, all great towers are right to tremble
When the fragile earth begins to rumble

Still, our end remains imminent
Pressing on us from all sides
Powerless to change our incumbent fate
Such is the ebb and flow of tides

Is it some specious impulse
An obligation otherwise repressed
Save for the artistically induced hum
Of our collective consciousness

Seek the end but don’t force it
All of this is finite in virtue and form
Never forget that we are but visitors here
For no one survives the storm

Marry-Go-Round

I activate the carousel

And send you around

 

Hair blowing behind you

All smiles, no sound

 

The fun that we have

Is frivolous stuff

 

So after multiple go-rounds

Enough is enough

 

Scenery goes blurry

The stomach gets queasy

 

We exit this ride

Sit still…and take it easy

Hour Eleven, Ten Words Prompt