Hour 8: Haiku
Turn the world upside
Down and tears rise like hot air
Balloons to heaven
No. 8
the
birds and
bees do it
humans
do it
when they can
hormones
drive it
though species differ
it
leads to
continuation of life
Hour Eight – Normal
Normal
Normal, who throws going out to dinner
around like we never forgot
and asks, how’s it going?
who is ever changing
and wears different gear each season
who sometimes is busy every hour
and sometimes has nothing to do but overeat
until we finally can’t seem to recognize her
whose little eyes are clouded
and acts surprised that we don’t remember
who used to go on day after day
is finished
is she a hug and a handshake
or is she a mask and hand sanitizer?
is she justice and mercy
or is she fear and anger?
Normal is hiding in the closet
and hasn’t talked to me in years
she doesn’t live here now
will she ever come out
or is her time passed?
Inspired by Prompt for Hour 7 and Sandra Cisnero’s “Abuelito Who“.
Pour down your thoughts dear
Here are your swords- paper and pen
Keep writing, have no fear!
Pour down your thoughts dear
Here is your world – a book
Keeping imagining, in full gear!
Pour down your thoughts dear
Here is your teacher – the nature
Keeping exploring, however far or near!
Pour down your thoughts dear
prompt 7 – (photo – building) squared eyes
squared eyes
i see into you through the angles of what you show me
hiding colour and possibility
like jewels in glass cages who have forgotten they, too are Earth medicines
older than rivers
i can feel no escape from these boxes
containing the whole world
as you would have it
stripped of any life that doesn’t serve you
why can’t i have circles?
my eyes are circles
our conversations about change are, too…
so you keep on forcing me out
to see the world in boxes
(c) r. l. elke
Where the Crawdads Sing
A young girl left to fend for herself
Just her and swamp and the birds
A tiny network keeping her afloat
Letting her believe that she is doing it all alone
A murder
Falling in love with the one person her age that shows her
kindness
A life spent in seclusion
On trial for being an abandoned child
A trial
She learns and persists
Writes and paints and builds her life
from the broken wreckage
of a family split in five
A verdict
All is not as it seems
Lines blur and the sky bends
just enough to where the moon is
secluded under the marsh
A life lived
Average
98.6 degrees with nary a cough, sniffle, or a sneeze
While wearing a mask, isolating, worrying about disease,
Having below120 systolic and 90 diastolic blood pressure,
A heart that makes between 60 and 100 beats per minute,
Not working at the office eight hours, but time spent at “leisure”
Allows for interference in thinking what one does please.
What Brave New World has such Orwellian creatures in it.
Six hours and forty-two minutes a day adults spent Online.
An average Intelligence quotient score between 90 and 109,
Below 238 words per minute read by dropouts and thugs
While not exactly Mensa doesn’t call for pulling the plug.
An average lifespan three-years short of eighty for men
With several years of incontinence–a market for Depends–
With 15 years to relax, live out one’s income, and decline
Similarities
Similarities
The chill of DayQuil down a sore throat
is the same as the coolness of alcohol
sprayed on healthy skin is the same
as putting a mint between teeth
and chewing is the same as you
when we kiss in a Covid-filled world.
60mg Cymbalta, 2x/day
Do you understand when I say
I tried? I’m tired. Dishes have
amassed. I am dirty. I’ve worn
this nightgown for three days,
coral palms fading and white
background turning toward grey.
I did. I do. I try. How to explain
the fear? I’m frightened of leaving
my fortress, grey sheets, grey
comforter, grey seal for comfort.
One way in. One way out. My
kingdom of growled secrets.
My heart slams out a drum line,
my diaphragm punched in time.
I’m dizzy, leather couch turning
into a spire. Corkscrew into
oblivion. There is no beauty
in this. Can I bloom my forearm?
My thigh? My breastbone?
Cocoa pebbles help, but they’ve
been gone two weeks. A banana
because I promised. Coffee is
a reasonable substitute. There is
milk or cream. Both if I hunger.
Some days I float above my body
and watch, indifferent. Wish I could
turn it off or change
the channel. Or change. Just
change. How can I tell you
the pain of breathing, even when
I remember nothing? How
can I be seen?
The body will say no.
The body keeps the score.