The Poetry Marathon

Super excited to do this again.  All 24 hours. All 24 prompts.  All 24 poems.

Super excited to hang with all the cool peeps from last year and welcome to the new coop peeps for this year.

I am from Mission, BC, Canada – just outside of Vancouver.  This high school teacher writes everyday – a poem a day and owes her success to the lovely Caitlin and Jacob for bringing this amazing marathon into my life and being the first people to publish me!

Let’s gooooooo! 🙂

Company

It’s the witching time of night,

or did I miss it in a flurry

of paper and purple ink?

This early morning hour is tricky

because

out of the corner of my eyes I

am constantly seeing

people who

are not there –

in the physical sense.

I feel them keeping me company

while I write and

the family sleeps.

And while I am sure

I’d be comforted

for the company,

my physical

and mental exhaustion

made me jumpy

while I write

and the family sleeps.

So, I’ll tip my hat,

to the inspiring spectres,

and thank them for

the camaraderie,

but it’s time to

finish up

what I write

so I can get some sleep.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Granny’s Kitchen

We lived out of boxes

most of my life

moving from

house to

house to

house  –

city to

city to

city –

province to

province to

province.

The only anchor,

in my young mind,

was my Granny’s

old house

in a Northern Saskatchewan town.

The house was larger than

anything

Granny knew

but was a shack to me.

Once a one bedroom,

it was added onto:

living room,

bathroom,

and an extra bedroom.

The kitchen was brightly

lit by a south facing window.

The UGG elevator

staring in at anyone

while they washed dishes.

It frightened me –

I thought it looked like an

angry giant waiting to grind my bones

to make its bread.

The chrome kitchen table was

topped with cherry red…something

that looked, to me,

like someone’s floor.

Beside the table,

my

brown,

rough

grandpa would sit

on a

brown,

smooth,

round-backed, wooden chair

he had

built with his own two hands –

the same hands

that sometimes held a fiddle

and always held a whiskey.

The kitchen smelled of

stale cigarette smoke and liquor –

both of which were

plentiful

always.

When my Uncle was there,

and not in jail,

he would sit at the table, too –

that red and chrome table,

bright with sharp edges,

and he would smoke

and drink

and play cards.

We all played cards

and they would smoke

but, mostly they would drink

at that red and chrome table

with the bright,

sharp edges.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Blue Clouds

Blue clouds spell

danger

on the Prairie,

especially

after the

heat and

the dust

kick up a storm…

the most terrified

I had ever been

was

watching in the rear view mirror

as the

dark blue funnel cloud came

toward the car.

Panic gripped me

by the throat

and nearly squeezed

the sense out of me –

my small children,

strapped in car seats

in the back;

my mother in the medical office

beside us.

It became

very clear,

very quickly,

where my priorities lay…

if that dark blue

funnel cloud had gotten any closer,

I would have saved my babies

and

driven away.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

For My Grandchild (whenever s/he decides to appear)

Dearest child,

We have been waiting

for you for so long,

it will be beautiful to have you here.

The house has been

silent of the

ringing laughter

of babes

after your mother

or father

left our nest.

Christmas has a sparkle again –

it’s magic has returned,

as has Easter

with its

bunnies

and

eggs

and sweet chocolate treats.

I must confess,

I had despaired

of an

empty house

but

now that you have arrived,

my heart can smile again.

Come,

let’s read the picture book

that made your father laugh –

any one will do –

and you will find that you

will laugh, too.

You don’t know it yet,

but

I love you more than

you could ever

know.

Now get here

safe,

darling child,

we have so much

to do.

Love from your grandma to be.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

  Coalition  by Kevin Peterson

Pixie

She walks in

courage,

cunning,

and strength –

head high,

chest out,

a pixie of the

lot

abandoned to Nature’s grasp –

Nature always gets

Hers back.

Owl perches on her head,

giving her sight into

places where others are blind –

it is as magic

as she –

pixie of the

lot

abandoned to Nature.

Her fox medicine

leads the way –

integration

of city

and not city –

she adapts

to any space;

as at home amongst

graffiti’d walls

as forests,

she is the

pixie of the

lot

abandoned

to Nature.

And,

to complete

the coalition

of the

funky

girl-child

psyche,

is Bear medicine:

introspection,

mother-wit,

the wisdom of the ancestors

that will keep her

safe here

in this world

between the worlds

of concrete

and

sapling.

She strides,

proudly,

wildly,

assured of her place

as

pixie of the

lot

abandoned to Nature.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

In and Out

He didn’t mean to kill

the man,

it was self-defence,

he said –

he came home

to the burglary

in the dark.

I only meant to

get his attention,

he gasped,

to scare him away.

Pardon me,

your honour…

The man shuddered

with anguish

and grief:

Pardon me,

your honour,

I deeply regret

what I have done.

As the man

gathered up his

papers and

satchel,

he

was as repentant

as a pardoned man

should be.

Closing the door

behind him,

in his welcome

home,

his partner asks:

How are you

always

getting away with murder?

 (c)  R. L. Elke 2016

Eagle or Thunderbird?

The nest was at the top of the mountain,

Himalayan high,

and built from the

bones of my enemies.

I soared above it,

spying my young

who needed feeding.

I thought,

for such a long time that,

I was an eagle

soaring over

the bones of my enemies,

until I read

American Gods –

about Thunderbirds.

There was no lightening

above these mountains,

in my dream –

just flashes of a white feathered head

and tail;

soaring above those mountains,

Himalayan high

and built from the bones of my enemies.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Sixteen

By the time we met

I was sixteen

and ready for anything.

I had bargained away

my second virginity

to a friend’s

ex-boyfriend

so no messy emotions

would weigh me down –

over-burdened with betrayal

as my soul was early on.

By the time we met

I was sixteen

and tired of guys who

wanted to fuck

or be friends –

I had “use me” stamped on

my forehead

in invisible ink

for

any predator to read.

He was funny

and sweet

and a virgin…

and I wasn’t…

any of those things.

By the glow

of his stereo

and Foreigner

waiting for a girl like you,

I suffered through

his clumsiness

and fell in love with

his laugh

and his curls

and his smell.

We were together

through my parents’

moving to

another province

and leaving me to finish my semester

and the looming

separation

when I went to Europe.

I was his everything

up to the moment

I wasn’t

which happened to

coincide with

the moment when

I went south

to cross a picket line

to the clinic

while protesters

called me a murderer.

By the time we were over

I was sixteen

and gutted

and he did not return my calls

or

or reply to my letters.

I fell in love with his

laugh

and his smile

and his eyes.

I learned,

once again,

to close up –

roll up –

armadillo tough

to hold in my shame

and keep out his pain.

I

cried for years

on that day in March

when I learned to

walk tall,

without him,

past those who

screamed

murderer

in my face.

By the time I was ok again,

I was…

almost fifty.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Centennial Nickel

If I had a centennial nickel for all the lips I wanted to kiss,

I’d be rich beyond reason

and that might just

quell the

questions

and the questioning

about what I’ve been missing.

The faces shine before me,

like a centennial nickel,

those sometime friends

those would be lovers

and

could be strangers;

those passers-by who

smelled delicious.

The boys at the

boxcar parties

on frozen December nights –

clear and crisp

stars shining

like centennial nickels.

The smug alt chicks at the

closing night parties

on frigid April nights –

when the thaw should have started.

Backstage their desire shone

like centennial nickels

but now,

in the cold light of day,

I was “too straight.”

And so it would be for me,

caught in between,

wishing I had a centennial nickel for all the lips I wanted to kiss.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016