The Poetry Marathon

the end

The farther away we get from our Mother,

the more of Her we break

dirty

heap with hatred.

We demand our desires be filled

at Her expense

at our peril.

Our wounded egos filled with all manner of things

to feed our starving souls

made obese on all manner of images made to make us blind,

hate our neighbor,

deaf to the weeping willows begging us to remember our beginnings

when love made us all.

When love made us all,

we could not know our destruction did not hide in darkness or hate

but in greedy indifference.

(c) r.l.elke

in the beginning

the centre is forever

forever begins in the centre

where love makes us all

in the likeness of itself

love wept for gratitude

so that water filled spaces love could not reach.

the heartbeat followed:

resonance of drum beats in darkness

filled with prayers of love,

building fires to light the way against fear.

light and love created space

for us to dance Her into life –

The Mother –

whose body feeds us

even as we defile her

now.

(c) r.l. elke

remembered to the land

The day I read:

“the land remembers you, even when you are lost,”

I stopped,

lowered the book,

and wept for every speck of dirt

left behind in places where I left my name,

ragged and bleeding,

while newly, unfurled leaves of wild strawberries –

heart berries –

wrapped themselves around those ragged edges to hold me fast

so I would not disappear.

The land who remembered me,

remembered my bare back on thin blankets,

the delicate summer evening I bargained my virginity

for “coolness.”

It remembered deep February nights –

beyond frigid –

when Aurora Borealis crackled my name to Sky Father and all the Star People.

My dog and I audience to the magnificence of light against dark.

I had lost myself from those days

when that land daily whispered how deeply I was loved

I had lost the voice of those ruddy Mountain Ash guarding the house –

then twigs –

now sentinels so wide I cannot embrace them

and touch my fingertips around the other side.

Upon my return,

to bring my mother home:

ashes to ashes

dust to dust;

those heart berries were the only ones to know me…

that tamed land now wild again…

I could hear my name –

faintly –

in those grasses,

as in the days when I was certain no one did.

Blessed be those little leaves

and the lands who hold us closest.

(c) r. l. elke

it’s all about the chemistry

hovering around you in twos

by twos

by twos

by twos

you stabilise me.

all pieces of my shell bonded when we dance together

around centres,

positively neutral,

we stabilise each other so the centre will hold itself

and us –

keeping the Universe safe from total collapse.

(c) r.l. elke

going dormant…doormat

Dear, teacher: Ramona at 36, desperate…near quitting

I see you sitting in the rocking chair with that baby-near-toddler in your lap

watching Def Jam poetry

listening to Taylor Mali’s poem about what teachers make –

falling apart because you know you are buckling under the weight of the job…

knowing you can’t do anything else because you know you are doing right

walking in a good way

with these kids.

They get you and you get them.

I see you standing in office hallway outside the Vice Principal’s office –

next year’s teacher assignments on the wall for all other teachers to see.

I see your face when you hear her –

that old bitch…you know…the career counselor…say:

“Don’t give her Creative Writing! She can’t handle it. She gives everyone 100%.  She is 100% Elke.”

I see your face in meetings where other teachers shit talk kids you know fight to survive

so you fight for them, too,

so you can survive the system made to crush you all.

You need to know what you do is right!

You are right about Spirit

and bringing soul to the youth who drown in the bile of their hatred

for classes, curricula, and creeping self-loathing borne out of failure.

You see them! They need that.

I am here – 15 years later –

your professor in your Masters program honour you then

for what you do now as you walk,

head down,

into the storm

for the ones left behind

or running ahead.

Keep walking, sister!

You are needed.  You matter.

Ask the kids who shout out to you in grad ceremonies,

the parents who weep at parent-teacher night,

the non-believers blinded by the love they see from you for kids who lived loveless

’til you.

It’s good, sister.

It’s good!

I’ve seen where you are going.

When you look around now, you are alone not cuz you are behind…

you are just way too far ahead.

(c) r. l. elke

coffee talk memories

moonbeams in the cold, black coffee

quakes in the chipped cup just out of reach of my fingertips

on that damn shelf you built for me:

glass shards in concrete,

wrapped in honey-stained fir…

re-purposed dock planks

where we first fucked, embraced by fog;

my heart breaking so loudly as to deafen me

in the hush of your back turning,

to leave me naked,

saying:

“See ya later.  I’m headin’ to the Canteen

to wash you out of my mouth.”

(c) r. l. elke

This Accident of Being Lost (Leann Betasamosake Simpon)

these dark trees breathe for me

many times a day

when I cannot walk myself –

no longer able to take one more step

or falling

breathless

into holes in the path

edged with grasses too tall to warn me of the gap.

my best laid plans lead me,

inevitably

to places so distant from the destination Creator

Great Spirit

Gichi Manitou

wanted for me –

the walk back to the starting point is always so much farther than necessary

if I had listened to those trees in the first place.

All I want is to walk with grace,

shod with silk stockings made of prayers

so I bring medicines in my basket

when I miss another turn to find others lost like me.

it’s good to be here these days

in the company of Synchronicity’s children

where we are never lost by accident.

(c) r. l. elke

at best you are beauty,

sex,

freedom in tiny drops of body fluid.

at worst you are ugly,

barren,

slavery, gigantic slabs of concrete.

they say over time, wet wears stone.

(c) r. l. elke

I loved this song!  I wrote the poem while I listened to it.  I have never done this before. Usually I listen to the song and write after. I found that little pieces of the song would jump out and find their way into the poem.  So, any lines from the song I will go back later and identify them some how.  Thank you, Caitlin for this beautiful song.

prairie love

dust coats my feet,

bare toes to the Earth

as it should be –

I pray with my bare soul to these prickles

and tiger lilies

wild in the sunlight.

clouds of my foot prints

lead me to:

those fallen barns

holding more than dried lumps of what horses leave in their wake

of meals once eaten;

to fallen barns holding

first groping loves in slanting hay lofts

what green-eyed boys leave in their wake

in the hint of sweet grass scents swimming in our hair

our heads

our hands retracing places those green-eyed boys traced, too.

or tufts of cottonwood seeds gathered around

those bare toes

reminding me of

snow-filled days when fires in barrels

filled abandoned train cars with light and warmth

of adolescent laughter,

tinkling of icy beer bottles in paper cases

hoping love would warm

or teach

this dear,

young heart

to love with body

and spirit.

these past years

my feet,

dust coated and praying,

have walked those sacred roads again

with ghosts of those now spirit

holding my hand as I go

to let me know

the land has me now:

holding my dusty feet and frozen hands,

binding my broken heart with bailing twine –

broken by stubborn boys who taught me how to be bare

before the fires ignited in the back 40

in the shadows of cottonwoods

who kept our secrets in the fields.

(c) r.l.elke