Identity Crisis

Have you ever lost yourself?
Searched for yourself in so many people,
Hoped that in the heartbreaks the pieces of you,
Stayed with them.
And now you want to play a Humpty dumpty.
But even that cannot put you back together again.

Flood yourself with questions,
That only drown you in more questions than answers.
When falling deeper into the rabbit hole,
Feels right but it is everything but.

Have you ever put a hand on your chest and felt,
Felt the heart beating feel like someone else’s.
Every road has a another intertwining with it,
Find yourself at crossroads and you can’t move.
You lack the direction, the purpose, and inspiration.

Who are you? The world asked
Another character in this book called life, he responded.
Is that life if you can leave a name to it? The world asked.
As silence fell upon the earth,
And day was replaced by night.
The boy wondered the ends of the earth searching
Searching for a an answer that was inside him.
Rather than around him

3. Bopping Rhymes

Bops help you hop and drop to down to do squats.

A bop can help you groove to a rhythm while you move.

A bop can’t be stopped, unless you think it’s a flop.

Bops make you dance, unless you want to keep your stance.

Choose the beat to help you move your feet.

And the bop will keep getting you hot.

 

Season of Change

Strange cosmic winds blow across the sands of our time shifting them into new patterns
Sychronicities surge sending signals and signs
Old sins of humanity repulse the populace
Nations repent for horrible history that keeps getting repeated
Differences are celebrated as we discover how much we have in common
Viruses unlock genes generating new gifts that awaken young gods from slumber
Awe inspiring abilities adorning those formerly thought as mortal
Starseeds planted long ago release light illuminating life in radius of their shine
Multiplying miracles melting the mundane

Harvest has come

Sutures

Sutures

Sometimes,
my head fills
with anger, festers
toxic wounds, scars
scab a paralyzing fear;
I feel like my inner seams
are ripping apart.

That’s when
I take pen to paper
allow myself to bleed
onto the page, let it seep
into creases to form words
and the poetry stitches me up
helps me heal.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 8

After these acts, Smile

After these acts, Smile

I want to know if Earth asks for a taste
of waters within you. Tell me if there’s
another thing other than what I know.
What does it ask of you this time?

What tells you you cannot be a bird,
roaming and nesting without grieving?
Kneel before your creator. If words in you
are heavy trucks on my nation’s road,
too difficult to move, do not worry.

Just kneel. Palms together
and gaze at the heavens for seconds.
Then walk away, whilst winking at sorrow.
You can write about the torments of solitude,
the nightmares; it’d make a good read
for another of its victims.

Raise your palms to the heavens,
a way of surrendering to healing songs.
Do not drop your hands in a hurry.
Say goodbye to the depression of spirit.

Tyger, Tiger Revisited

Tyger, Tiger Revisited

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright

In the forests of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

Tiger Tiger where are you

In a landscape at a zoo

Or roaming free in a stream

Where you remain a modern meme?

Hour 8, Prompt 8 Didn’t follow Original

Strange

 

Fantastical fictioned future

oblivion

once conceived, it would not leave

just a terrible bedtime song.

 

Lolly flowers are singing

laying lush.

The tarot cards spread,

waiting to be touched.

 

Dark coy wallflower, delicate matters choose

you,

All my fantasies. Each it’s own journey.

Still, you’re a fool.

 

 

hour 8 prompt 8 (emoji poem) synecdoche

hour 8 prompt 8

Emoji poem

 

synecdoche

 

I guess that’s what synecdoche is:
<3 <3

love hearts in short texts

instead of

phone calls to say I love you

when distance

or dis-ease keeps us farther apart

(in parts)

than the laws of social distancing

from fear or

shame of separation

hidden in the little monkey –

face covered by its cute, little hands –

to hide my actual embarrassment

for not doing what I know I needed to do:

treat you like a whole being

instead of a cartoon version of your parts.

 

© r. l. elke

The Pharisee

Mine is a rudderless vessel
guided by a Pharisee wind –
the breath that no one sees
but me.

He was there at the porch
that day I knocked
and said nothing.