24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
It’s a long road to home,
I’ve had some time to roam, to mourn
It’s been a long journey, and I was hardly ever alone
Sewn, into my fabric are now tales
Of when the wind was in my sails, and the oceans rough and wild,
And mountains hard to conquer,
Of battling with the monster,
Inside of me
And now that the sea,
Is calmer, I can see the shore
Not at war at anymore,
With my uncertain self
I came home to myself,
And it was the warmest of welcomes
There is a cat on my lap
He won’t budge
So my fingers must navigate keyboard keys
Sideways
He is impervious to poetry
He knows his presence
His comfort
Are most important of all
He has a bad boop on his head
And stickers that must be pulled
He puts his head down on the arm
Trying to sleep while I clack away
A sound he cannot control
He is impervious to poetry
But not the inconvenience
It creates
His self-centered existence
The comfort of a warm lap
Disturbed
By floating words from sideways fingers
On a laptop invading his space
Shoes tied and socks pulled up
It was time for the early morning ritual
The sun was yet to make its appearance
There’s a long way to go before it does
Balance is key to the ritual
Too fast and I’ll break something
Too slow and no stimulation
Just the right amount of speed is important
The snores synced up to unison
breathing in… breathing out…
The birds and the bees slept in their nests
breathing in… breathing out…
The outside called to me
Strava’s reminders pushed me to take a step
And another step, and another step
Until I finished the goal I set for myself
Balance is key to the ritual
Too fast and I’ll definitely lose breath
Even without going out of the gate
The ritual will fail
Balance is key to the ritual
Too slow and it’ll take forever
to reach the goal I set for myself
The ritual will fail again
“You can do this” I reassured myself
“You can really do this” I reassured myself
Shoes tied and socks pulled up
I am ready to take on the day
–Surya T
Les oiseaux étrangers
They say
and who are they
the wise who know so much about us?
that where you live at eight years
is always home.
Maybe that is true for more
than me: my home moored
to an unfixed object
floating through the years
tethered only to my leaving.
There were birds I looked up
no birds I knew only les oiseaux etrangers
Alien birds, I’m sure my grandmother
would call them. But mallards?
Wigeons? Pheasant & partridge? Foreign??
But then: what about a river lapwing
drinking from the Mekong?
Trogons and bee-eaters, barbets
pittas and thornbills, ioras
that masquerade as goldfinches.
My home plotlines blur like reflections.
I float above the villas, slum apartments
like that unmoored childhood. I have no
tether either. Here between these wild crags
I might be bird, etranger. Flying somewhere home.
That grain of rice that hangs from the corner of his lips
I wipe
Bludgeoning the promises of possibilities
That grain of rice that hangs from the corner of the lips
I smudge
Killing the possibilities of transformation
That grain of rice that hangs from the corner of the lips
I do nothing
The man with no teeth keeps looking at me, through me, into the fields where
That grain of rice is soaking to be born.
The Fourth Lap
Ah!
The fourth lap nears its end
With I bruising through lap three
My head blank as a slate
The prompt telling me nil
Blank head breeds
Blank sheet breeds
Blank screen.
Poetry is not a game
But this is marathon
And I must reach the end
A poem per hour
And here’s to Hour Four.
A spring in your step may occur when vacation is at hand,
Whether going far away or staying home is the plan.
Skipping may occur when you have a light hearted revelry,
For wandering in a funny style can bring laughter bright and free.
Twirling round and round, is another way to go,
Though dizzy you may find yourself rather slow.
Strolling from point a to b, chatting with a friend,
There’s many ways to wander, the options have no end.
(dude in the tub)
you had me hooked from the first song;
grabbed me by the neck
and emptied me into oblivion
like a white page in a snow storm
incapable of holding words
implicated in secrets
submerged from the neck down
floating in my own filth.
I think it’s you who needs cleansing.
(C) r.l. elke
— Using the text prompt: walking without the word ‘walking’ —
A stroll through the garden,
A hike through the forest;
Meandering through lifetimes,
beneath nature’s beauty and a chorus.
Our souls are porous
to the wonders
of all that has been seen.
And as we sashay through this instance,
I delight in watching your eyes gleam.
My heart leaps along with the violin.
My mind is cleared.
There is hope everywhere.
My cats glance up from their cat tree.
Is she finally writing after a long break?
Get it all out. Ideas bloom in my imagery garden.
I examine from all sides and choose a setting.
Words dance with each other. I nod my head to the music.
We are never truly alone. There is always poetry and books to escape in.
Just bring down the walls
and let the beauty in.