The Poetry Marathon

kobade

arms linked in arms

around

arms around us all

link after link after link

forward and back

from home to home

to pieces of us in each other

like the eggs in th eggs in the eggs

of our great-grandmothers

in our great-grand daughters

concentrically linked to each other

“forward” and “back”

so that in our language

there are no separate words for

grandmother and grand daughter.

we’ve never been separated,

“forward” or “back”

only co-imagined pieces of each other

forced into spaces too small to contain us

“forward” or “back”-

even in the limits of our DNA:

the physical chain of kobade.

©r. l. elke      June 26/21

kobade is an Anishinaabebowin (the language of the Anishinaabe people of Turtle Island) word meaning the connection of generations moving “forward and back” (ie – we do not have a different word for grand daughter or grandmother…they are the same)

i never have to worry about not saying yes

because too many people i’ve met

stretch the no into the yes

any way.

r. l. elke

how we talk to the stars

live in the memories of our cells

what will they think of the eyes watching

when they want to join us?

r. l. elke

if you’ve seen the Kids in the Hall show Death Comes to Town

you will know that death is an aging rock star on a Harley

who only eats cold pizza stuck to the lid of the box

…not so scary, really.

r. l. elke

if i could live in these veins,

holding this being in the palm of my hand

held over my heart in longing to breathe you back into life

in the sun in the field under the sky

blue like the cleansing of my want

to live in the veins of this being

connected to my centre and their centre

linked umbilicus to umbilicus

mother and child in the cradle of the sky

littered with all those ancestors who placed me

in the way of this being

so I may live in these veins of blue.

(c) r. l. elke

in the vision of yellow

there is a call to be honest

with these flowers in yellow

in the sun on my heart

loving the yellow onto the page

in ways that would make the blossoms proud,

honouring the spirit of the plant –

the gift of the plant  –

with love of the making

to make us in the image of blossoms.

(c) r. l. elke

black and blue

black and blue and read all over

in the pieces of me popped out in this mess

like straw holes in pie crust

made to allow hot air to escape

so the inside gets softer

or something like that told to me by good intentioned monsters

older than my desire to give a shit for their advice:

black light in the blues made to make the whites glow with more pride

than any of them knows what to do with…

so much like that feeling of knowing better

when that’s not the truth known by anyone.

the only thing i learned through all of this smearing

of one layer over the other

is when the pieces are cut out

i am just as dark on the inside.

(c) r. l. elke

up to my tits in infinity

I am up to my tits in infinity

whipping my head around to face the future in the sun set

like it actually mattered

here on top of the world

looking down on creation

like that song karen carpenter cobbled together

to keep herself from not eating

or whatever

while i float in liquid amethyst

soaking in it

up to my tits

in infinity.

(c) r. l. elke

paper lies

in the beginning there was love and land and all those relations held together by wants and longing to be better in places closer to all the truths humans thought they knew until they didn’t hear the voice of Love

until they killed it

over and over so the lap of creation burned the love out of the secrets shared from the centre of the universe by whispers from angels who lost faith in us when we lost faith in each other, twisting stories into truths or poke out the eyes of those who claim to live the word instead of just singing it.

lately i don’t believe any of them unless they lead with love once more.

(c) r. l. elke

squared eyes

i see into you through the angles of what you show me

hiding colour and possibility

like jewels in glass cages who have forgotten they, too are Earth medicines

older than rivers

i can feel no escape from these boxes

containing the whole world

as you would have it

stripped of any life that doesn’t serve you

why can’t i have circles?

my eyes are circles

our conversations about change are, too…

so you keep on forcing me out

to see the world in boxes

(c) r. l. elke