The Poetry Marathon

back in crowded rooms

should feel uncomfortable

but with the right people

discomfort turns to friendship

drops of iron soak into the earth

giving you your first breath

roots anchor you to your mother

knotted wood encase your spirit

from your limbs and head, flowers bloom

bringing with them companions of bees and birds

you will never know your father

but one day you will learn how he died at his son’s hands

look towards the future

some days time ticks down

to an end

other days the clocks are broken

no end in sight

In front of the fireplace with a book

A warm blanket maybe a mug of tea

Exhaustion overtakes quickly

First behind the eyes

Unfocusing from the words on the page

The mind wandering, making stops to daydream

Next it’s dinner time, the smell of food acting like an alarm clock

Blink again and it’s midnight but well-rested

he watched over them

his collection of robin eggs

blue and gray

sometimes speckled

a dozen eggs filled his heart

he didn’t know if they were fertilized

but it’s not like he cared about all that

every morning he counted the eggs

one, two, three

ten, eleven –

this morning one was missing

his perfect collection ruined by a single chick

he smashed the other eleven

and tossed the chick outside

he watched over their remains

he hated that they were fertilized

lovers in the roots

of the ancient willow tree

gentle wind, comfort

she stood taller than most

not in stature, but in spirit

a friend to all

but family to me

keep her safe

little star

on my first birthday my father gifted me a hand mirror

my mother kept it in my nursery

and as I grew, it grew with me

at five, it was hung on the wall across from my bed

I saw my face as I slept

at sixteen, I came home and found it cracked

my mother tried to fix it with resin

but it came out lumpy and distorted

at twenty-three, I moved it into my first apartment

I left the mirror with my parents, it had grown too large and fragile to move

my father protested, my mother stayed silent

at thirty, I found it in their basement while searching for long gone memories

it had become a window, and through it I saw myself

a baby, a child, a teenager, a woman, a person

soft undergrowth pads the forest floor

sunlight, blocked by trees dapples my skin

warming a few inches at a time

an old house sits empty

untouched by human hands

vines creep up and through decaying walls

I have come home

land of freedom

land of opportunity

land of democracy

land of violence

land of oppression

land of authority