The Poetry Marathon

Hour 6 Prompt 6 – writing days

writing days

 

robins’ trilling calls me into consciousness,

singing faint, slotted light –

pale infusion behind the dark.

warmth against my skin on sturdy sheets

protect me from

cold ridges of hardwood

waiting for my warm, soft feet

on the way to colder, harder floors.

finding comfort in the fibres of slippers warmed by the heating duct.

 

water streams gurgling down water pipe throats

splashes cold droplets across the top of my hand to lake water memories

smelling of warm algae-coloured water in

summer bathing suits trapping the fragrance of freedom in fibres of synthetic –

synthesis of then and now in a sound, breath, and memory.

 

freshly ground coffee beans smells like addiction feels

so that on days when I fill the coffee bean canister,

I shove my nose in the foil bag,

huffing coffee oil air like a dying fish gulping for hope,

remembering how it’s possible to love a fragrance almost more than a child

sometimes.

 

those early, alley-lit, winter mornings or

whispering dawn summer ones,

I curse the humming, gritty drone of the coffee grinder –

today, though, the whispering light prays louder than the grinding,

creating solace in silence once more.

 

winter morning candles leak light into darkness;

in summer, they trade heat with early sun-reaching pink fingers into pale blue sheets of paper skies –

scrawling onto pages,

like me,

in this soft light,

forgiving to my blue bic ink

on the smoothness of paper strong enough to hold my heavy words

some days.

 

on school days,

beginning with robin or chickadee trilling prayers to start the day,

I cradle my abalone shell –

all at once smooth and noduled like an old tree’s hands –

filled with white sage, tobacco, and sweet grass

healing me with pungent-sweet smoke,

after surrendering to flame’s helping heat,

hovering smoke around me to put me right for the day.

 

on my best day, though,

the smoke hangs on me,

on my paper,

until hunger pangs lift me from my hard, wooden chair.

cramps in hands and legs are worth it

to spend hours

smelling south breezes through bright windows

next to my white, coffee stained writing table.

 

© r. l. elke

6) birds & more

I put two more fat balls in the feeder, he says.

Did I say you could? I laugh.

Nope, he says, but I did anyway.

Now we both laugh.

Inspector Jacques Clouseau

here in my writing room had already sussed it out.

Chaffinches were on sentry duty

atop the bird feeder.

Calling their dinner bell.

Sparrows, coat tits, great tits, yellow blurs

in the roses bushes

while the seeds dropped slowly.

On our patio errant seeds

grow unruly Covid locks. Faded,

dried out, clumps wasting away.

Miniature carrots have been known to raise a

root or two.

But to watch chaffinch, tit and sparrow mingle

at the feeder is plenty entertainment.

Sparrows feeding sparrows,

three to four at the feeder.

Upside down clings and perches,

side ways,

tops, bottoms,

talons wrapped, touching full circle

while they peck and balance

wings fluttering ninety to the dozen

faster than hummingbirds,

It’s then I miss those feeders and the call, chirp, hum,

sucking the sugar water dry.

 

I love to chat at our feeder.

Before the dogs came,

neighbours adding dogs to the family circle,

morning calls would be a tap on

our bedroom window

Or a survey of one window over another

The one that would ensure full feeding ahead.

Peanuts, wild birdseed.

Sometimes it’s 4:10am.  and the gentle song

intensifies,

multiplies, in frequency and decible.

In these parts alarms are useless,

far better to heed nature’s call.

 

No To-Do List Morning

Start fresh, sun through windows,
bright or clouded,
it doesn’t matter.

Coffee burbles into the pot.
Its acrid scent,
an empty page, and
a purring cat on the table
are enough.

Not quite silent.
Through the open door, wind
rattles limbs, sings through the leaves,
accompanied by a host of backup musicians,
crows, out-of-tune jays,
woodpeckers, those virtuoso drummers.

No one notices when I step outside
except Nike, her tail slapping air.
Birds continue their song.
Squirrels taunt my dog, walking shoes
crunch gravel in the drive,
and a story takes form in my head.
The air is cool, but not cold.

Back inside, the television is silent
and daily chores can wait.
My fingers tap, tap, tap
the keyboard,
Nike snores at my feet,
and brushing my right arm,
one hind foot resting against the laptop,
that still-purring cat.

Hour 6: Qi

Qi

So it begins — not too early I’ve never been one to court dawn —

        breath and fluid motion,

                cultivating life energy 

Deep breath, 

      cleansing breath,

               in and out

Later the warmth of a coffee-filled mug in my hands 

                      my soul smiles with each caffeinated sip

A leisure walk along the bluff 

           an afternoon swell of wind is a kiss on my cheeks,

                  the azure sky and sun glinting off the lake energy within  

                          Expel warm breath, push sailboats into specks on the horizon

Cool firelit evening, crackling campfire

            My family dissects the world. 

                 Falls into a collective existential crisis but resurfaces

                    with lighter conversation of books and music

                            shares laughter into wee Witching hours — 

So it ends with harmony and deep breath, 

           cleansing breath, 

               in and out

                    It ends with air — Qi

 

 

 

A poem called Poetry.

poetry.

*yells in anguish*

that is all.

Greatest Fear

Fear

Distressing emotion

Impending danger, evil, pain

Threat 

Whether real or imagined 

Fear the worst 

Pray never happen

Fear of being alone

Being a bad mommy

Not making my mom happy

Not succeeding

The discipline of my child 

My future

The world

Men 

Niggas on the corner

Feelings being hurt

Future of my child

Not being around for my son

Just shows

It’s real

I am human

Goes to show

Greatest Fear

hour 5 god made me haunted like this god makes me haunt & so now this is yours

try two    if not three
try four   four decades of trying
& learning & trying
just a little further
around the bend & im still trying not to cry : why is crying so hard
you’d think id have learned by now   the only way is through it—

they never told me to follow my heart because they didn’t want my heart broken like theirs
but when you come out broken when your moms broken growing you in utero
broken is what you know   you can’t unbreak a person
made broken any more than you can an object —even one hemmed whole with gold
stronger along the faults   remembers its history in its bones

Midlife love made simple

All I want to do with you, baby
is share a joint,
and chocolate ice cream,

talk about our traumas,

listen to groovy music
on the floor,

and make-out
like teenagers.

Prompt 6 Ideal Day

Prompt 6, Hour 6

Prompt 7, Hour 7

Write a poem titled Season of the (fill in the blank).

The fill in the blank could be a reference, it could be an actual season, it could be something abstract, or concrete, anything you want.

The key is to write a poem that matches, or interacts with that title.