dryad:
wood-fires stoke her hair, she is
autumn in every toss of head;
every sprightly patter of feet,
each embrace, every hug,
any delightful time we meet.
23- Mine
This day belongs to me.
I will not share it.
I will not cook or clean.
I will not go to work.
If I shut the door today, it is okay.
If I ask you to figure it out yourself today
that is okay too
because today is mine
and I do not have to share it.
Today is my Christmas
and all the gifts are mine
the gifts of unencumbered thought
and time to unfold, to write and discover
and craft words into powerful poetry.
Today is one of my favorite days of the year.
I cherish it and look forward to it all year long.
Today is mine. It belongs to me, and I to it.
It is mine, and I am grateful.
Elizabeth Fellows
6/28/2020, 1am
Purpose – Hour 21
I long for a sense of direction
Navigating this never-ending haze
Too often faced with the misconception
That I know my way out of this maze
Who I am supposed to be
They say it is up to me
Yet it doesn’t seem to be my choice
When they hardly listen to my voice
A deep sense of fear of misdirection
Perhaps will be my life-long affliction
I long for a sense of purpose
To the right path it will guide us.
Ah, New York!
I remember you
and your bustling vibrancy!
Energy, like nothing else
in the whole world.
Creative consciousness
wired in a hive mind.
That’s you, New York,
and I still love you!
Already Human
Already Human
I need you to be
something you’re not,
someone who already
is, no instruction
manual needed
to operate.
Someone who knows
what to do, how to act,
what it means to be
a human, fully
formed, ready to love.
When I kiss him I know
that you’ll never be
who I need, but I still
dream of an us, not
consumed by misfunction,
an us bursting, being
who we need. I’ll wait,
though, for you to be,
to say my name and know
what it means to be
Hour 23: Mary the Fairy
Imagine, if you will, a tiny little sparkly fairy
If you do, then think of her as I call her, Mary.
Mary likes to flit around and settle on my shoulder
Lacking that, she’ll often sit on an old, lumpy boulder.
Mary and I we like to play, we sing our little songs
Mary is full of mischief, puts things where they don’t belong.
When I am asked by others, why did you put that here?
They don’t understand, it wasn’t me, but Mary has disappeared.
prompt 23 hour 23
I have yet to know his name but I know his face I know his slim features and his blue as the ocean eyes his scruff of fuzz he claims is a beard his chiseled face it clings to I know him from the top of his crown of dark brown hair to his dirty Converse low tops I know he carries a degree in art but loves to write I know he loves cooking and Bluegrass music He can take your breath away on the dance floor or in the kitchen he visits me often when I think about who is next in my life I have had his picture in my mind for a very long time he is out there and I have nothing but time to wait
Maggie Motivation-Hour 23
I am what is left of your inner strength
Your late hour motivational therapist
My name is Margaret, Maggie for short
I live on the bridge of your nose
I walk up and down, eyes to mouth
Searching for ways to keep you going
I would like to recommend some yoga
Maybe pushups, Sit ups perhaps
When was the last time you walked?
I know the answer to that
We need to talk about that too.
Write this thing already.
This and one more hour
Leave the junk-food alone
Keep your eyes open
Stay motivated to complete the task at hand
There will be rewards
Not the physical ones you like
Inner ones
Ones that will keep you strong
Don’t throw that pillow at me
We will do this, we are doing this
One word on top of another
Fit them, stack them
make them bleed
That’s the way
Poem, poem, poem
Now doesn’t that feel better?
prompt 23 hour 23 Arthur
prompt 23 hour 23
Arthur
I don’t remember when he first came to talk to me
in mirrors,
or when we would play cards
or at dinner time
when I would beg my mom to set him a place at table
so he could eat with us
and he was always hungry
and lonely.
I would call him on my red play phone
and we would talk for hours and hours
about his day
and the adventures he would get up to,
and he must have gotten up to some great adventures!
over forty years later I met him again
in a Great War Cemetery in France
(Sunken Road Cemetery),
buried near a lad with my daughter’s middle name,
so I know he was “real.”
Arthur was my relative…
never really imaginary,
just never really visible to anyone else but me.
© r. l. elke
Penultimate — Hour 23
I have an imaginary friend who
writes poetry in my head
he’s on strike right now
so I can’t prove a thing
If he wants to play an hour from now
I’ll let you know