The Poetry Marathon

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.

The Dog (Prompt 2, 10am)

The dog was a puppy at the rescue,

on the first day that we met.

The wrinkled face, the floppy ears,

She stole my heart with no regret.

I was nervous to bring her home.

What would my two cats think?

A wiggling ball of energy,

who I bathed in the kitchen sink.

 

The dog is now medium, friendly as can be.

She loves to play and zoom about the yard,

Chasing squirrels or birds who drop on by.

She’s not caught one yet thankfully,

Though she sure loves to try!

She loves to watch the neighborhood,

hoping for pets and treats.

 

The dog has helped me meet the neighbors.

She’s helped me make new friends.

She brings joy where ever she goes,

Her goofiness never ends.

 

Hour Two, 2021: Use One of These As A Springboard — A Dog

Oh, dear, this enormous dog
keeps barking at me.
It’s quarter to four, and
I’ll be late for my tea.

With snarls then ruffs
circles and puffs,
we stare eye to eye
this canine and I.

Dog, you silly dog,
STOP barking at me.
Four o’clock is here, and
I am late for my tea.

Wags and paces
Darting into safe spaces,
Our contest is hurried
as we both scurry.

A dash here, a plea there
hops and sidesteps
we prance this strange dance
amidst yowls and yips.

The dog, sweet dog,
purrs contentedly.
At now quarter past four, 
we’re sharing crumpets and tea.

To her- hour 2 poem

I often imagine a warmth drenching me , specially when dusk dawns in this neighbourhood of innumerable weeping willows.

I know my mother more than she knew hers, she says. There is a dam somewhere I feel, holding back a reservoir of memories, bound by a silent oath, never to be spilled.

I often imagine the crows’ feet on her skin growing wings into those of the crows that live here, a couple of thousands of kilometers and a generation apart.  I often imagine her as a towering figure bending down to help my little palms hold on to some dreams.

 

Coffee and Change

I don’t like coffee.

 

The wind blows through the trees

And the grass

And the leaves

And me

Until we are all nothing but wind

And wasted potential.

 

I don’t like coffee,

But when we live together,

We will have a coffee maker.

 

I stare at the horizon and I feel the tires,

And the engines,

And the angry voices yet to come,

I feel them as they tear apart a home

That was never really mine.

 

You like gas station coffee the best.

You eat it on late nights

and early mornings

Paired with stale saltines.

 

The cars are coming now,

And they steal the wind away from me.

They murdered who I was,

And now,

They threaten the man I have become.

 

I promise,

When we live together

I will buy you boxes of saltines,

Just to let them go stale.

I will walk with you to 7/11

Well past midnight,

Just to get a drink I despise.

 

I will do it all,

if you just promise

to get me away from here.

Coffee & Change

Rich, full, and bold
Your aroma,
Temptress of my nose.

Consciousness streams
Bright light
From head to toes.

Lifting dense fog
Awakening slumber
Awareness of totality.

Darkness ebbs
Knowledge permeates
The Beast transforms.