ramonaelke – Page 10 – The Poetry Marathon

cohen’s flowers

cohen’s flowers

It’s right there,

those flowers in the concrete

on corners

choking on dust and exhaust

but surviving.

They always remind me of Cohen,

from Anthem,

y’know, the line about the cracks letting light in?

Those miracle flowers growing in the city

on streets where nothing is left alive,

in body or soul.

But it’s hope

for us to harvest later.

R. L. Elke

blame it on bowie

blame it on bowie

you always wanted to go into space –

maybe it was Bowie’s fault.

I never understood the appeal of the stars as a travel destination

but I know you loved it so I tried to understand.

I love the physics –

what I understand

of quasars,

nebulae,

constellations,

and shooting stars bringing us messages from distant suns.

the science saves the rest.

I don’t want to fly or dive or die

in space where no one hears you scream.

I can’t do that.

But I know you love it,

so I try to understand.

R. L. Elke

(C)Aug 5/17 prompt 19

at the circus

at the circus

there she is, flying with the greatest of ease,

for all to see,

on the flying trapeze.

the monkeys dance for the lion tamers’ cracking whips

to keep the crowd awake.

elephants trumpet,

standing on tip-toes,

so unsteady as to shake the whole tent to the ground.

peanuts,

popcorn,

and candy floss

fill our mouths with happiness

like magic.

at the circus,

we found those bright places in our lives

where all that is golden was ours.

R. L. Elke

lost and found

lost and found

I know it’s here somewhere –

my self-respect.

I left it here,

in between the six pack,

the extra large box of condoms,

and the carton of jamochaalmondfudge ice cream.

So, if you happen upon it,

toss it my way,

would ‘ya?

Thanks.

R. L. Elke

Anne with an E

Anne with an E

I stepped off of the train,

carpet bag in hand,

to the beatific face of that glorious man!

Matthew Cuthbert of the angelic, golden halo –

or so it seemed as he sat under the blossoming cherry bough.

Nearly,

nearly I was passed over because all for want of a boy

to help Matthew with the chores.

Nearly,

nearly was I passed over.

Marilla nearly sent me back

but for Matthew, my saviour!

They came to love me,

through my mis-steps

and mistakes:

the missing brooch, as the Lady of Shallot

getting Diana drunk on cordial

instead of giving her cider for our tea party

and breaking that slate over Gilbert’s head

when he called me “Carrots.”

I became their pride and joy,

long after my Matthew passed –

Marilla said she was glad I wasn’t a boy.

I gave sons to the Great War, you know?

Jem came home –

lost and changed –

but my sweet poet Walter remains in Courcelette where he fell.

No DCM[1] could bring him back:

hero or no hero.

So I mourned,

two babies,

my first and my soldier-poet son.

I tried to be strong for the others but it wore on me…

those ghosts.

Without Gilbert,

my rock,

I would have surely succumbed to despair and melancholy.

But here we are,

lost in the reverie of memory from the dusty shelves of the library.

Kept alive in the cozy bed time reading time

or dozy summer beach time.

For that, I heartily thank thee,

kind readers, all.

R. L. Elke

[1]DCM= Distinguished Conduct Medal

Adonis and Aphrodite

Adonis and Aphrodite

You are my Adonis;

rippling, marble body

perfect in its beauty.

I am hardly Aphrodite –

more like Medusa –

withering stares turning everyone to stone.

But you,

master of perfection,

your gaze shatters my stone prison –

makes me feel like that Goddess who loved Adonis and no other

without heartache for losing him

after warning him not to hunt one day.

Just one day.

Like I beg you to be careful

when you do what you do when you do what you do.

I am forever fretting that I will weep over your broken body one day, too.

That would kill me.

For the little resemblance my face holds to Hers,

I am nothing like her, at all, in immortality.

But you –

you are Adonis in every way but name

and I shall play your fool –

divine comedy –

Aphrodite in my dreams,

or in the forest,

anywhere you rest your beautiful head.

R. L. Elke

jars of magic

jars of magic

the magic light of evening hearkens back to the

mystery of spring,

the calling of frogs at twilight,

and children collecting lightning bugs in jars.

Where did it go?

That magic of frogs and princes

and gilded lily pads?

Dropped to the bottom of the pond perhaps,

or suffocating in jars with the lightning bugs.

R. L. Elke

dial it back

dial it back

The dial rests in my hands –

all of time rests in my hands,

all

I

need

to do is

turn it

forward

or

back.

All of time rests in my hands.

Mine alone.

Only my time alters in this strange new world.

I have to choose where I go –

when I go –

forward

or back

but once.

Only one turn,

one use only.

All else in my world would be altered.

No going back.

Would I turn the dial to 17 or 18?

Would I try that world –

that life –

would I meet you at that age?

Just to see what that would be like?

Those years were bitter and cruel for me.

Would it be worth it?

Losing all I hold dear?

Would it be worth it?

Or would I spin forward

just enough that it wouldn’t matter to anyone but us,

leaving us to ourselves,

our life,

our lives?

I hold the dial in my hand,

truly bound at a crossroads so heavy

as to buckle me under the weight of its possibilities.

I crush it to powder

with the weight of possibility,

choosing not to make a choice as the safest way out.

It was the first time I had ever taken that path.

R. L. Elke

pressed up against the sides of this space, I bump into the places where we meet and I wonder if there is enough room to branch out…to become the giants we need to be in the parts of our lives requiring us to be larger than our lives allow us right now?

tightly locked. back to back rather than face to face…where I would rather be with you…contained inside you instead of this cramped area of my head suffocating all of us under the smallness of my doubt about what is possible for either of us.

freedom made possible only through resignation or surrender. either or both a possible option to break us out of this confinement.

R.L. Elke

Aug 5/17 prompt 12

reeling

reeling

He would play like that, too –

my mother’s father’s fingers flying over strings –

foot stomping as to make whiskey glasses jump off the table.

Mom would dance, she said,

dance to the flying fingers, fleeing days

of whatever the Salvation Army shared with them.

Don Messer, too, set me reeling –

dancing feet to flying fingers freeing me

to twists and twirls

when the floor met me in my dizzy dance.

It’s the sound of the Metis –

the forgotten people;

so forgotten even mom doesn’t remember the jig in her blood

and the flying fingers fraying bows

on necks too strong to snap.

The jig in my heart jumps lightly now

finding flying feet

out of ash and concrete

so my soul can be free to reel

and meet the floor with my dizzy dance

R. L. Elke

(C)Aug 5/17 prompt 11