The Poetry Marathon

Coffee and Change…

That was the time of day,

When coffee aroma brew it’s way…

Out to get mixed from shelf,

For the one who liked coffee as self…

But confused was the moment,

For was the coffee or she worth the comment…

Brewed a normal one with being a bit tensed,

Thou knew the taste would enhance once it went in her hands…

Sweet did she appear,

Provoking a thought of skipping the sugar…

Wanted to give cold, out of my stock,

But surprisingly, hot was demanded by the flock…

Seeing others even she halved her cup,

Giving a shock, if coffee had a bit less of luck…

After a sip, Saved was the day,

With the gesture of her’s was right up the way…

Wished she could have taken the full of shot,

But guess the rest was left for some other time’s slot…

Never since then the coffee and its aroma remained the same,

For now her smile accompanies the coffee, sweetening the change…

 

The Joy of Unseen Things

You would not believe your eyes

If dancing bras and singing mini skirts

Woke you up from crying bed.

The horror that would fill your face;

The rush of fear and uncertainty.

Your bed time stories come alive to fill

Your ears with screams of war; pounding sound of mortal engines.

Your shoes run haphazardly and try to scare you

For all the time you never cared for them.

 

Somehow, somewhere

There’s someone out there

With a camera on

Trying to tell the world what’s happening in your little crazy house.

Until the camera comes alive and runs away.

 

Wait, was this real?

 

HOUR 3 Aesthetic Display

An Aesthetic Display

‘To share my thoughts would be deceitful,
When I may display the prowess clear,
Enrapture your beating heart, delightful,
A living image for you my dear.’

And with those words I chain his hand in mine,
Leading him into the depths of hell.
Wooden staircase descending into my pit,
A secret room where our desires may swell.

Beyond the basement’s simple hues we head,
Therein, bound, the limbless living corpse resides,
Adrenaline driven, pained yet present on a bed,
Drifting on death’s impending, ever flowing tides.

‘An offering to you, a gift from my cancerous heart,
I had sought an outlet for the spoils of war,
This spoil is a promise of more to come, a start,
Fear of his demise sickening beyond the limbs so sore.’

I wheel out my trolley, an array of the artist’s tools,
Colourful by suggestion, sharp and shining silver shades,
‘It is your time, the time of death for narcissistic fools,’
I state mockingly, hand reaches and passes the sharpened blades.

‘For you my kindred star,
My lost soul drifted so far,
Take off your mask, raise your head,
And show me who you truly are.’

Hour 2, Island

Island

 after Thelma

 

They say pain is an island with a cabaret law. 

Say that aching is a song you shouldn’t groove to. 

Don’t let your head bob or your foot tap

for your joints will groan in protest. 

 

Let the space between the joinings lay stagnant

the air expanding until you are a balloon 

tethered to the mooring of this plane by threads 

woven from your hair

as it pulls from your scalp.

 

HR 2 – Text Prompt

Text Prompt:

Use one of the following titles as a jumping off point:

The Joy of Unseen Things

The Dog

Island

Long Run at Dawn

Coffee & Change

 

 

Long Run at Dawn

During long runs at dawn,
I stop running from what hurts and
start running towards it.

Full adrenalin surging,
sweating and aching,
body sore but open.

My inner child feels
the freedom of the pavement
and rejoices
because long runs are her time.

She still doesn’t fully understand
why those bad things happened,
but I’m starting to.

Together, we are healing; although,
sometimes she is afraid that by letting go,
her suffering meant nothing, but then I
take her into my arms and show her where we are now.

She touches my pink, purple, and blue hair,
she stumbles wide-eyed, looking at the children we have loved.
she realizes that every pain she endured, allowed me
to protect so many others. She knows her pain was for something
bigger than her tiny, fragile soul.

It got us here, so together,
we run, and hope that things keep getting better.

Poem 2: Spring Rite

Spring Rite

Blue

skies, green-

leafed trees near

the playground. Pry

glitter from the dirt,

build a maypole of quartz

shards made smooth by countless children’s

hands, most having known only play

but not all. Some children’s hands have touched

what children should not be made to touch, some

hands have turned into peaches from shame they will

bear like the low-hanging fruit they became to some

uncle or father, easy to reach for, too jelly-

like to defend themselves. What do these children celebrate

around the colorful maypole with their exuberant friends?

Tripping Along to the Museum – (Hour 2 2021 Half Marathon)

Tripping Along to the Museum
(Hour 2 2021 Half Marathon)

We walked along the metal pier
To the museum
That looked like a crashed space ship
The sky was caramel
A perfect day for fishing
At sunrise
This pier had a metal fence topped with barbed wire
With signs that said no fishing
I didn’t have my rod with me
So it didn’t really matter
My grandfather
Used to take us out fishing
To the wooden pier near his house
My brothers, cousins and me
He taught us how to hold the rod
How to spin the reel
And not feel depressed
If we didn’t catch anything
He was teaching us the process
Of patience
I feel those muscles
Exercised
As I walk along this pier
Taking my own kids
To the museum
Where they can see
Pictures of fish
And sea mammals
But I am consumed
By the caramel sky
With streaks of blue
And colors beyond definition
Thinking of how my grandfather
Would perfectly place my hands on the rod
So it would feel comfortable
For long hours of catching nothing
Getting there before the sun would rise
Watching the sun cross the sky
And finally disappear
Beyond the horizon
When my grandfather
Would finally call it a day

No Clue

The shock on his tiny little face

As a deathly hideous ghoul was put forward

As his mother will never leave.

I rage now again that the mirror wasn’t brought, the make up wasn’t bought and no one thought to think while my mind was mired in morphine.

the joy of unseen things

the joy of unseen things

 

our ancestors dreamed us here,

according to my teachers,

who know such things

beyond the reach of grasping fingers

around the throats of loneliness,

separation,

or despair.

 

the imperceptible changes in breath,

reveal,

moment by moment,

so many tiny windows to sing from

or jump out of.

who’s to condone the thought of either?

 

because

our ancestors dreamed us here,

holding hands with eternity,

so that all the heavy lifting is hidden

under a mote of dust.

 

(c) r. l. elke

Finally

The Poetry Marathon 2021

June 26, 2021

 

Finally

All I do is drive

Searching for diamonds

Filled with dreams

Of my youth

Wishing that my son

Gets the same experience

As I did so long ago.

The pop of the glove,

The crack of the bat,

The spitting of sunflower seeds

Fill the air.

Baseball: Where diamonds are gold

And dreams of glory resonate.

Jack has played rec ball for four years

And suddenly announced,

“I want to play travel ball.”

So, I search the net,

Mark the tryout dates on the calendar,

Fuel up the car,

And soon I drive…

To Warrenton,

To Mount Vernon,

To Gainesville,

Back to Mount Vernon,

Back to Warrenton,

Anywhere that a team has a 13U tryout.

He just wants a chance to play.

Jack is a 12-year-old

Trapped in a D1 body.

He is six-feet tall

Weighing 197 pounds…

And he is still growing.

He has the power,

But he needs fine tuning.

He just needs to learn to let go

And use all of his physical gifts.

I just hope one coach sees

His raw potential and thinks,

“I can take him to the next level.”

However, most just want the best player

Who gets them closer to the league championship.

With each rejection,

Jack states,

“I want to pay against that team.”

This attitude will keep him motivated

Not only in sports but in life.

At each tryout,

I sit in the car with

Neal Schusterman, James Dickey, and

Dan Carlin who entertains me with stories.

Every now and again,

I get out and watch.

I still love the sounds of the game.

When this last tryout ends,

Jack gets in the car,

“Dad, Coach said he wants to talk to you,

So don’t leave.”

I get out and I wait

While trying not to get my hopes up.

I step away from the car.

Jack doesn’t need to hear any more bad news.

Coach and I make some small talk until he states,

“We want him. We have a spot on our B team.”

I smile, shake the coach’s hand,

And return to the car.

“They want you. You made the team.”

He exhales and his stress melts away.

His smile is the size of a slice of watermelon,

And he says,

“Finally, somebody gave me a chance.”

Yes,

Finally.