The Poetry Marathon

Foreign Bodies

I heard somewhere –

on CBC*, I think –

that pacemakers

are computerized.

A woman said that

some hacker could

kill her

with a

click

clack

of

buttons.

My therapist

had his

replaced

5 times

because the

doors at the drug store

shorted it out.

When I think about

those foreign pieces

invading a body,

I am forced to admit that

it’s really not that different

from all of the

foreign bodies

I’ve been forced to tolerate

in mine.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

*CBC = Canadian Brodcasting Corperation  – it is our national radio and tv station.  Lots of sciencey stuff gets talked about on this station.

The Will of Nature

I’m lucky –

I get to explain

to angst ridden teens

how

trees grow on mountain sides.

And

most of the time

they buy it

but,

once in a while,

one of those kids

scoffs at the will

of

Nature.

Yeah,

this makes no sense

cuz

science is

irrefutable

and stuff

so

what is the problem?!

Sceptics would say

that you can’t get

dirt from a stone

cuz

it’s rock –

it’s hard…duh!?

I can always

count on

the kids in the back

cuz

they know this all too well:

all it takes

is a

little crack

so the light can get in.

The lichens break

rock

into dirt

so

the birds can “deliver”

(complete with air quotes)

the seeds.

So,

heathen teens,

that’s the story

of how

the smallest plants

crack the

toughest stone.

Now go and try it –

buy the principal a coffee.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Ode to Rita Joe  (companion piece to the persona poem)

I saw her everyday

for months

sleeping in the doorway

ten steps from the

Army and Navy

on East Hastings –

the DTES

Downtown

East

Side –

death warrant,

execution certificate for

anyone living there –

especially

women and girls.

The first time I approached her

to

hand her a five

she

screamed at me:

WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN’ AT?!

I looked at my feet

and

said I was sorry,

I

just wanted to

help her out.

She had a great smile,

in spite of the

broken,

blackened

teeth and

eventually

showed it to me more

often than she yelled at me.

People would spit at her,

you know,

and once, even

a car load of

frat assholes from

UBC

threw a Gatorade bottle

of piss at her.

She hissed

and spat

like an alley cat

but

her eyes

gave her soul away –

you could read

every chapter

and verse

of the rape

and the abuse –

her eyes

made her look dead

inside.

But,

one night,

in my truck –

she was high,

I was drunk –

she told me how

she wanted to fly.

She hated the mountains,

said they reminded her of jail –

and she “fucking hated jail.”

She wanted to be

on the Prairie to see

the sunset

on all the horizons.

But it happened –

as it always happens –

on the DTES:

the

Downtown

East

Side –

I walked past her stoop

every day,

for weeks,

but she was no where to be seen.

I asked around,

at the places she’d

haunt

but no one had

seen her for weeks.

It’s been nearly a year

and I haven’t

seen her –

or heard

where she’s at.

I’d like to think

that

she’s on the

red path

back to the

endless sunsets.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Moon Bathing

The moon cast silver on her

ivory skin making her seem

translucent

or

metallic,

he could not decide which –

but she was beautiful

bathing in the silver lake.

He could sing the glory

of her

silver skin to

all the Gods

of the pantheon

but

he did not want to

panic her –

he knew what became of

those who

glimpsed her

beautiful, bathing body:

some became stags for her to hunt,

some became moored from lack of wind,

or were simply struck down on the spot.

But he was safe,

in the shadow of the canopy,

and admired her as she bathed.

He was

the one who got away.

© R. L. Elke 2016

This piece contains graphic language.  Please know, spirits of my sisters who have lived or live this life that I mean this only as a form of respect and that I burn tobacco to pray that you will be free one day.  Spirits of my indigenous sisters, who have been taken by predators in this country and other countries, blessed be you and rest.

Rita Joe

(In honour of George Ryga’s character from the play The Ecstasy of Rita Joe)

Never shoulda told ‘em I heard voices – they said it was my head but – I know it is the spirit of my ancestors and they are angry with my –

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKIN’ AT?

I AIN’T NO WHORE            !

YOU COULDN’T FUCKING AFORD ME, BITCH!

-angry with my habits…I tried, you know, to quit the booze and the dope but it helps out here –

KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS

OFF MY SHIT!

-at night when I am trying to stay awake cuz if you sleep here, you’re fucked!

We are being hunted out here, I’m telling you, I had lots of friends go missing or die cuz no one gives a fuck about drunk Indians anymore cuz they got our land all ready.

FUCKING COPS

DON’T CARE IF WE

O.D.!

But, you know, I never wanted to be here – I wasn’t born to snort pills and suck cock –

I had dreams once, too.  No one says they wanna be a crank head when they grow up or take punches from rich men –

PICK A FUCKING COLOUR,

ANY FUCKING COLOUR.

They all want to take from me what they get at home for free – with a side of …

Tried to tell the cops about my dad

my uncle

my pimp

but we don’t count out here – our cunts don’t count cuz we get high and we drink and we fuck for money.

I STILL FUCKING MATTER!

WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN’ AT?!

Best friend went to the pig farm, eh? – that Picton farm – I know it.  Someone said they found her DNA.  That’s how you know they got you – the DNA.

Coulda been me, eh?  Coulda been any of us here cuz the fucking cops don’t care that the voices in my head is my great-grandmother telling me to watch out for uniforms –

cops

and

clerks

and

priests.

So, anyways, thanks for the money, and not tellin’ me how to spend it cuz the nights are long here and life is short here for us Indian bitches on the Downtown East Side.

KEEP WALKIN’, BITCH!

THIS AIN’T NO FUCKIN’ CIRCUS!

One day, I fucking tell you, one day I’ll get outta here and go home – to the prairies and look to the big skies again – get away from these fucking mountains that hold me in…like jail…I fuckin’ hate jail…

I’m goin’ home one day cuz that’s what I dream about when I hear great-grandma’s voice.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Cathedral

People bring it all to the forest:

worry

joy

serenity

grief –

the ready-made confessional

where we

whisper our sins to the ripening berries

and the promiscuous bees…

they understand.

Each step puzzles out aches

of the mind

and

confusions of the heart.

Wandering in and out of

light and shadow

in search of

clarity

or

clear vantage points

from which to view

the mountain peaks

or

treasures hidden in valleys.

It’s the true,

what they say,

we really cannot see

the forest for the trees

but while we are there,

face to

moss bearded face

with these mute priests of the grove,

we are contented

to have the solitude,

the sacred space

to whisper confessions

to the

rose hips or

spotted foliage

and

unfetter ourselves

from care.

(c) R.L. Elke 2016

Vertigo

It’s always so much farther

down than up

and I

constantly

fight the urge to

throw myself

off the edge,

into their beds,

or into

nude,

all you can

eat

nonstop

erotic cabarets.

Face first –

always –

not head first…

I always lead with my lips

and

my brain

eventually follows.

But

it’s just always

so much farther

down than up

And the

height

makes me dizzy;

but I lead with

my

heart and

I never hit the ground.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Fields of France

Those millions of nameless faces

Feeding the acres of French wheat with their bones

Are sold by the dozens to strangers

From dust-filled, cluttered antique stores.

Feeding acres of Belgian wheat with their bones,

Century-old, beautiful boys,

From dust-filled, cluttered antique stores,

Fade into the blood-soaked fields of time.

Century old, beautiful boys,

The great sacrifice of an entire generation,

Fade into the blood-soaked fields of time

At a great risk of being forgotten.

The great sacrifice of an entire generation,

By majors and generals who couldn’t care less,

At no risk of being forgotten,

Unlike the lads who had no choice.

For majors and generals who couldn’t care less,

Thousands of pages were written,

Unlike the lads who had no choice

But to march and to kill and to die.

Thousands of pages were written

For those millions of faceless names

Who went to march and kill and die,

Are sold, by the dozens, to strangers.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Kline graue Katze

(Little Grey Cat)

“Hast du angst?” (Are you afraid?)

I asked the motherly

grey cat,

(if cats can be motherly)

perched precariously atop

the stall post in front of me

while I mucked out

the horse’s stall

after school

of a dark,

Alberta-cold,

February eve.

Grey Kitty,

(because I was that original)

“mawed” her answers

back in

cat,

rather that German,

but

I could swear

I heard her say,

“nein.”(no)

I had to perfect

my German because

I was going there

on exchange in the spring

and

I was terrified

to be misunderstood

and

anxious that

I would be

ganz allein (all alone)

and have nothing to say.

That motherly

grey cat,

perched precariously

cold day in

and

dark day out,

and listened patiently to

my inane, adolescent chatter

about

meine tag in die Schule. (my day at school)

But

all of that practice

with my

long suffering cat

in the end

did little to

prepare me for

the solitude

and separation

cast in the shadow of

a language barrier.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

slavery

Being a slave to the pit made me do this. The boulder of Sisyphus constantly pushed up continuous hills to sate the growling pit within me.  It’s the worst excuse for the best mistakes I’ve ever made.  The Devil made me do it – so did the pit I couldn’t fill within me.  Auto-pilot. Overdrive.  Circles burnt into my visions from staring into the face of God and not seeing anything.  Those black holes attracting every shipwreck in the galaxy, keeping me too busy to captain my own ship.  Auto-pilot.  Overdrive.  Crawling on my hands and knees, into fields of broken glass, trying to find my way out of that pit.  Clawing up the sides to see the edge of eternity, praying for freedom from slavery to my ego’s master.

I melt to break free

from the pit within me and

stare into the sun.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016