Prompt 11: mythical place

Utop, IA

At the center, the heart

Let’s set the scene

The sacred space

Of in between

A colorful hilltop village

Erected on ashes

Of the past’s flatness

Showing that flexibility

Cultural Agility

Economic Mobility

Can be built up

On the soils of farmers’ humility

A cooperative land

Without need for demands

A simpler place

From the future, not the past

When the nation is great

There is no again

We are charting a course

Righting the wrongs

Building the Ark

This time

Let everyone in

Louis IX of France

The shining city
on ancient industrial hills
at the center of the great river
from which the waters
of the four oceans flow
lived the saint who sold
a parcel of land
the size of heaven
for pennies on the acre
so the billions starving
in chicago’s dark satanic mills
knew now where to go.

A procession of trombones
and french trappist ghosts
welcoming the huddled masses
onto casino riverboats.

Through the great wide open hole
between Liberty’s loving breasts,
those seeking fortune flight and fame
pass beneath the gateway to the west.

Moai

Ever since I saw the photos
of those giant heads made out of stone
I have dreamed of the island

The most remote land mass in the world
floating somewhere halfway
between Chile and Tahiti

A mystery still
how those huge rocks moved
why they are facing away from the ocean
a culture barely understood
of birdmen cults
long ears
short ears
a tiny dot on a map
devoid of trees
stranded in the vast Pacific
with just a bunch of statues

and a couple of rongo rongo tablets
that no one can decipher.

What happens when a people gets locked
in their past
their history long forgotten
but so public in its permanence?

Do their voices get carried in the wind
long lost by the gales of the sea?

Are their secrets whispered amongst the underwater sea creatures?
Like mermaids who never existed
outside of human dreams?

No one will know
only the statues
with no mouths to sing their stories
and no eyes to cry for their lost past

hour 11 poem

My two Dogs and a Cat

Every person should at some time have pets.

They are always there for you when you need to confess.

They keep your head clear and reduce your upsets.

Day after day morning and night they are also there to bark at the treats.

Now pets aren’t free they increase your debts,

and unless they are hurt, they seldom protest.

My life has been filled with many such pets

and I have never had any regrets.

Yes, these three creatures are my greatest assets.

 

 

 

 

11. Isle of Iona

Solitary.
Holy.
Rocks and sea,
some grazing
for sheep.
A thin place,
where the veil
between worlds
dissolves.
I’m sure
there’s a low hum
in the air.
I’ve only visited
in dreams,
some ancestral
pull, the green
stone of Columba,
serpentine & limestone,
calling.

Hour 11: Dawn (Form: Constanza)

Golden warm waters drift in bright,

Shine embracing the reflection

Ripples pop in excitation

 

As dancing sun rays recede night,

Gently awakening the birds

And disorderly grazing herds.

 

Spills the colors of the first light

Capturing rainbow in a dew

Composing every morning new

 

And the silhouettes come to sight

Ambitious to breathe the sunshine

As the first breeze jostles the vine

 

To cherish the catch in delight

The boats are set to sail the vast

Singing away the overcast.

Hour 11: Celestial Feeling

Walk into the temple, be humble, have respect,
Almost like stepping into the gates of heaven,

Statues of miniature Buddhas lining the walls,
Creating an ethereal feeling as if your soul is being lifted.

If you stare at all the small statues for too long,
It’s as if the mind has been tricked with an optical illusion,
It seems as if they are all moving, calling to you like a higher power.

The music in the background enhances this celestial sensation,
Taking over your other senses along with your nose as you smell the burning incense,
There’s no need for the awareness of touch,
For you have been caressed by something impalpable.

Exiting the temple is like a bridge between worlds,
For that other worldly feeling has disappeared,
And you are no longer a victim of the illusion of such peace,
However, the memory of such a feeling is stuck within to give you peace during troubling times.

#11 Magical Rain

The rain drops fall like nostalgic music,

Echoing the laughter of the past,

The excited giggles, the rushing to the terrace,

The present stillness – such a sharp contrast.

 

Our little hands clasped onto dad’s fingers,

Our tiny feet splashing in the puddles,

Hours spent getting drenched in the rain,

Ending with shivering, but, warm cuddles.

 

The chilly wind wafts in the smell of the earth,

My room becomes a time machine,

Ah! Those lazy mornings and midnight binges,

And all those moments that fell in between.

 

But change is a constant we all bear,

Now miles apart – I do wonder,

The people I grew up with are so far away,

Are all those moments now truly over?

 

“MOOOOM!” screams my daughter as she bounds in,

Animatedly pointing to the torrent outside,

Before I know it she’s pulled me to the terrace,

Cheering as the rains intensify.

 

She jumps and splashes water on me,

I too become a child with my mischievous elf,

Her tiny hands clasp my fingers tightly,

I smile as history repeats itself.

 

We play, we dance, we slide, we squeal,

It never really gets over, there is no end,

My siblings are probably doing the same elsewhere,

Rains make the past and present walk hand in hand.

 

-Prachi S

Poem Hour Eleven

The Other Place

I’ve never been to that other place –
You know the one.
Hidden, secret, a degree away from normal.
Entered through a small wooden door,
Only noticed out of the corner of your eye,
Or through a large wardrobe in an empty bedroom.
It could be a hole in a garden wall, almost buried
Under thick, heavy vines.
Or a locked entrance to a castle,
High in the mountains,
Where no-one ever goes.
Except when they do
And later return,
Somehow different, transported to
That other place,
Where I have never been
And am unlikely to ever go.
And so I watch the doors open,
Even as they remain closed to me.
I watch and I read
The signs, the books,
Find the almost entrances,
Almost hidden
In plain sight.

a place

I am awoken by songbirds
and for a brief moment I’m somewhere I haven’t been to yet

a place where I have kinder eyes
where strangers know I’m smiling even if that’s the only thing they see

a place where I’m slower
where the roses of spring don’t hesitate to shower me in their scent

a place where I’m warmer
where I take off the sweaters of yesterday and put on something finally sustainable

–

I open up my curtains, pull up the blinds
and let the morning sun peek through

until then, I can pretend for the day