The Poetry Marathon

Regrets —-Prompt 11

Periwinkle sky,
A backdrop
that supports the clouds
that spread like sourdough bread
Stretched out
A bread to brake and share with friends
My mind drifts like the roaming clouds
Curious about the storefront
A store located, the one I want,
A Carrier of needles and stitch
A method of repairing regretful words from the past
Regrets sticking to me like stale cigarette smoke encircling
my space
An intrusion of memory
Coughing in the damp air
Am I able to repair
The past words lingering
And stalled in
The twilight fog
Once words tumbled from mouth
No longer a moment to retrieve and pull back
The carpet aisle
A regret throughout me
Like Swiss Cheese on the Ruebans
You used to make
with sourdough bread

Through The Storefront Window

Once through the storefront window
The sky scraper was built
through the periwinkle
sky and the gathering
cloud

Once through the storefront window
A needle pulling thread
spread the periwinkle
sheet across the beat-up
stand

Once through the storefront window
The man sold sourdough
to the forest ranger
wearing periwinkle
gumboots

How to Make Retirement Look Easy

How to Make Retirement Look Easy

(for Andy)

 

I’m in awe of those seasoned veterans

how they work a hundred years

leave legacies to shape generations.

They shrug off accomplishment

like an old sweatshirt. Lean in, husband,

let’s be clear:  You and I, unlikely superstars,

visionaries whose thought & actions

guide others in whitewaters of corporate

calamity, lifting others to their best selves.

We don’t need all that show & bravado

––or humility. Some kick-ass, I’m-outta-here

it’s-all-about-me hides under our hats.

I wait in this garden, watch for your

work boots, worn but knowing. Your smile

comes first, stepping across furrows

of fresh time. I think: he’s ready.

Break rules, plant dangerous crops

get ready for rides we’ll be taking

on our next trips around the sun.

 

June 26, 2021

Art – Hour Eleven

A splash on the canvas of yellow and green
A leaf or a flower or some evergreen
A sign of the springtime or maybe of Fall
Or maybe not any of the seasons at all

From the side, could it be a goldfish in a plant
Or maybe a bug? It could be an ant.
Oh! Art is subjective, a sight to behold
Its limits are definitely left here untold

For what you may see in the same, I may not
And neither would be wrong in the imagery sought
For this is the beauty of art as a whole
Where one sees a person, another a knoll
A beautiful picture left out on display
For whomever views it to see their own way
Where colors and imagery, shading and light
Fill up someone’s heart with uncanny delight

prompt #11: use specific words

At the storefront

The old man sat with feet propped up
gumboots scuffed through the black rubber
In his twisted fingers he held a needle
plying it through a patch spread over a torn net.
Overhead, a cloud pregnant with rain thickened
against the backdrop of a periwinkle sky.
This, he told me, is how we always done it.
The way my daddy done it. My mama
she brought him sourdough bread n butter
bread she made from her own starter
butter she beat from our own milk.
I miss them days. Nothing like ‘em.

prompt 11 (art on the patio) in the vision of yellow

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

#11- The beauty of an ink blot

Straight lines and precise curves,

The intricate crosses in it,

Not crossing in any other way,

Not a scratch out of place.

Blocks and shades,

Within the lines,

Out of the box,

But still within the lines.

Controlling every move I make,

Making sure its picture perfect,

Art, abstract,

But only my version of it.

I’m holding on to the reins,

So tightly my hands hurt.

Never willing to lose even a smidge,

Of the control I’m clutching on to.

The art still beautiful,

Taking its own course,

Growing by itself,

Letting it lead me in the dark.

But I hate the dark,

I love knowing,

No, I can’t do it,

I clutch the reins harder…

~thryaksha

Hour 11: A Poetry Marathon Limerick

A manic young poet named Moore,
Penned poems ’til his butt became sore.
He was reminded, at last,
To rescue his ass,
Because Grubhub had come to the door.

Mercy

I do not need your mercy 

For you do not hold the power 

To release or bind me 

I hold the means

And

I have long since

Opened the cage 

And 

Buried the keys 

Beneath the cherry tree

Where they have grown fruit

Sweet as first kisses

Sharp as outgrown love

 

At each harvest

Each barren season

I have forgiven myself

The dignity and foolishness

Of my human 

Pilgrimage 

To wholeness 

Hour 7 – Inclusivity

Do have to suck a dick in front of a jury of faggot elders,
to be queer enough for you ?

Or is it ok with your queen-li-ness,
If I do whom-the-fuck *I* wanna do?

See: be it velvet pussy,
Iron cocks, or genderfluid toys….

In my pansexual thinking:
I get *ALL* the Joys.

And this world is just as shitty to me,
As it is in *your* lament.

So take your non-inclusive bullshit,

And go get fucking bent.