24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
A thousand stars light the way
A thousand ways to confuse the mind
Which path to take
Which light to follow?
Silence deafens us
Except for the punctuation of the oar.
The open sea
The vast night sky
Seek to swallow us whole.
We sail out to find the answers —
The answers that are hidden deep within.
A thousand stars light the way
A thousand ways to confuse the mind
Which path to take
Which light to follow?
The one that shines the brightest.
Why do the snakes
Keep creeping in my rooms
Every rain, every monsoon?
And why do I have to spend my life
Sealing the gaps I did not make?
Why does that window simply not fit
Back into its own frame any more?
Just – someone had broken it off?!
And it refuses to protect me any more?
Why does that wall still keep
Getting damp, year after year?
Still get me cold, still get me shivers
Every time I touch it?
Why does the sunshine burn
Everytime? I just want to feel the warmth.
Why does the snow bite
Everytime? I just want to feel the white.
Don’t let the past define you.
So why does the past
Keep redefining itself
Over and over?
How many mirrors should I cover?
How many windows do I close?
How many stabs? How long it takes?
How many doors and how many snakes?
How many times and how many hours?
How many faces and how many failures?
Yes, she says
When I saw her across the room
Yes, she says
As we met where the flowers bloom
Yes, she says
When I put the rose in her hair
Yes, she says
As I touched her with tender care
Yes, she says
When I drew her near
Yes, she says
As she trembles without fear
Yes, she says
Yes, she says
Yes, she says
As we kiss..
Yes, she says
When she says nothing at all.
Woodpeckers, Jays, squawky Grackles emptying feeders
The Crows wait on the ground for theirs
Never a cute little Bluebird, a Yellow Finch
Always the loud insistent sloppy eaters
Bags of seed and slabs of suet disappear daily
Trips to the hardware store a weekly event
Needing a coupon each time to keep bellies full
The pleasure of nature becoming a mandate
Now Pigeons in the barn dirty feathers abound
A nightmare of bodily debris gathers
Swooping low to exit with indignant cries
As though their eviction would be illegal
A mother Robin manages to hatch her young
Risking trips for food while Pigeons complain
Perhaps another week until her babies can fly
To leave this hostile world and return to trees
You’re emotional, he says.
It’s all in your head.
I’m a kind man,
caring, sometimes
even love you.
But that 80 proof
and 100 proof helps
me cope,
you know.
Me da was that way.
And sure my family understands.
It’s how we all cope.
Been doing so for generations.
But she?
She’d love to tell him, explain.
She’s emotionally dying,
becoming brittle
where once was voluptuous.
Sour where once was wild sweet honey.
Calloused, blistered and broken
where once was cream, smooth and warm.
She is selfish, if she leaves.
There’ll be nothing for her.
It’s how Ireland treats its women,
its mothers, its wives.
Men in starched white shirts,
black form fitting suits,
with their leather suitcases
and curled pointed shoes
tap out commands, directions,
orders.
You’re emotional, they say.
But she?
She’d love to tell him, explain.
She’s emotionally dying.
She is emotionally dying.
Dear Berthe,
I wish you could have seen the new show. Yours! The first of note since the 1940s. At least four long rooms – a connected suite. One side of a vast floor of the Musée d’Orsay. You know, the railway station turned into museum (you would appreciate that they left the station’s big old ironwork clock)..
All the galleries were crowded even though Thursday was a perfect July day. And gloriously sunny. The trains and Metro were running again, so you could have easily ridden into town from your summer place in Bougival. (I bet you would have applauded the striking workers last week.) Even the signage was brilliant. Not pretentious. Not patronizing. And translated into English for those who don’t know French. (Though, of course, we both know something is always lost in translation.) They even remembered how Degas called you the most experimental of your friends.
I wish you could have seen everyone craning, lingering. And not just adults, but children like yours.
I wish you could have joined me.
clink, clink, psssft…
sploosh, fizzzzzzz…
sip..sip…gulp…
ahhhh…
refreshment…
Hour 4 – Bop poem
For Love’s sake
this echoing heart reaches into spaces
where pain layers over so many pieces
like fine dust in china cabinets
we thought would protect our treasures
from wear, weather, and weak fingers
prone to drop the most fragile creations.
I cannot be otherwise for love’s sake.
echoes of love into spaces reaching out
while simultaneously slapping away healing hands
find their way into my world, too
when I feel most unworthy,
most empty,
most filled with fine dust of doubt
layering me in pain
and the longing to be whole.
I cannot be otherwise for love’s sake.
the blessing in echoes are in the returning –
those second and third chances
to be better,
to accept rather than swat away the love
freely given from places I least expected
to bring healing to this grateful heart.
I cannot be otherwise for love’s sake.
© r. l. elke
Dear Mom,
You would have liked to know
that your old home
has an activist living in it,
shown by a sign promoting change
that you helped start
but did not have the time to finish.
More than 20 years have passed now,
and the trees around your home
have grown into a forest.
For Shania Rey; Whom I miss so much.
Dating
Going to prom
Pickin’ out colleges
Walking across the stage
You didn’t do these
This should have been your
day too.
the day to celebrate
the beginning of your life
like so many before you
We were supposed to watch you
grow up
learn
question
live
we didn’t get to watch you live
we didn’t get to do everything we
were supposed to do with you
you died.
Instead we celebrate others
in the same position
excited for the start of their lives
watching them grow and learn
it makes me hurt just a
little.
I’m happy for them
don’t get me wrong
it just hurts a little
A little all the time