The Poetry Marathon

To Grandma – hour 4, prompt 4

Grandma, I sure miss the way

you’d tell me stories every day

and cook me dinner without delay

when deciding to prolong my stay.

At thanksgiving, always such a treat

is where the family’d yearly meet

for turkey, ham and tasty sweets

and then a tournament, cards they be

pinochle winner, a trophy get ye

let’s not forget the rivalry

watching Cowboys/Eagles on TV

what is best, the love we give

hugs and kisses when we leave.

Any time we needed her

the house was open, and with care

she’d talk to us or leave us be

and things would soon be alrighty.

Dear Grandmom, used to be such fun

Tall Pines camping, in shade and sun

yummy casseroles, and pies galore

a campfire and some yummy s’mores

swimming in the campground pond

and watching fireworks at day’s end.

Most of all, we loved the way

you taught us how to live and pray

the church is where you’d always be

and followed your example we

so then could live eternally

and meet you again, heavenly.

– Sandra Johnson

Letter // Hour 4 Half-Marathon

Ah, 

Smiles emerge when I think of you standing there: 
tall, kind, soft-spoken - the first gentleman I've known. 
We waited for car rides and balanced books that bright afternoon. 
Your wit and insight shone through and broke your shyness.
13 at the time, little did we realize a final goodbye would 
come not even ten years later. 
13 at the time, our dreams were all possible.
Our world was still hopeful, open to all we'd do, 
ready for our shaping hands and youthful souls. 

You studied at Cornell, you were changing the world already. 
A car accident off a bridge ended your contributions. 
We had seen each other only briefly at a college party. 
You remained among the finest gentlemen I'd know. 
You still are, crystallized in my mind's eye these decades past. 

We've all grown older: wrinkles, addictions, children who gave us grandchildren.
You should be with us. Fatigue is here, yes, but life is still worth the struggles. 
Others from our class died, too. I imagine you there on a bright afternoon, welcoming them 
A haunting, silent summer has closed in; we look to our past. 

I think of you and your promise. Our tired world grow brighter in those moments. 
I remember you.

Letters from Home

Mom,

I’m participating in this years Poetry Marathon again.  I really wish we had been able to do one together.  You were the reason I started writing poetry in the first place.  “Mandy & Nanny” will always be my favorite.

You were the inspiration for some of my best work last year, as we had just recently lost you.  I have a few that I’ve written over the years about you.  As we write to feng shui our souls.

So much has happened since you left. 2020 has been insane.  Lex ran off to OH and got married.  I made her headpiece from part of your dress. 😍

Cas and Jessi just moved to PA.  She accepted the invitation to study at Carnegie Mellon.  🥰

We lost David and Ralph, I know y’all are partying up there.🤣

Don’t worry about Daddy.  We do Daddy Daughter Days much more often. 😘  We even did a videochat with the girls this past Thursday.😁

We miss you every day.

Love always

💜  Mandy

 

Recipe for a Guaranteed Disaster Hour 2

Hour 2

Recipe poem

The Perfect Recipe for a Guaranteed Disaster

 

Ingredients

1. Me
2. Longing
3. Loneliness
4. Dark Dance Floor
5. Vodka

 

Method

***Following the recipe is a suggestion. Disaster results, in any measure, are guaranteed when all of these ingredients are brought together.

 

1. Take me out of my leggings and into a shower late afternoon, allowing for a couple of hours, at least, before the appointed hour of “readiness,” to allow time for dressing and preparation.
2. Make sure large doses of longing have marbled through me; tenderizing the toughest parts of me so I am more pliable to any grasping hands to pull away the tenderest pieces of me.
3. Soak in loneliness for a minimum of 48 hours. Any less time and the results will not be as immediate or as obvious to permit a state of “readiness.”
4. It is always best if the longing and loneliness work together. The results will be much more impressive.
5. Prepare me with dressing to suit the location and season. The fewer layers the better.
6. Introduce me, after soaking in longing, loneliness, and vodka, to the darkened dance floor. Results are best (and most story worthy) when the Canadian Navy is in town, for a little added flavor.
7. It is vitally important to infuse the whole mess with vodka every hour, at least, for the most amazing disaster.
8. An extra tip: this disaster is best when I have to work the next day. This produces the most glorious disaster: the walk of shame.

Serves at least 2-3…at a time.

© r. l. elke

H.4 – REMEMBER THAT DAY

Dearest Love,

I can never quite find the words, that my heart wants me to say, they seem to get stuck somewhere so very far away, I call to them with my memory, I try to cox them out with love but alas they are still hidden away.

I wish time was endless, oh wait l guess it is, it is our bodies that are born to decay our time in sun so brief yours left a little sooner than I could ever bare, to me you were still a child learning to breath the air, l guess I need to hold you, even though you are wisp, a song without instrument, a breath without heart., love without tomorrow, a kiss trapped in my dreams.

Dearest love, I miss you, I want hold you in my arms, your grave has grown wild flowers that have a little charm, l pick them every spring and bring them to my room, on the pillow beside me I let them release their seed, their scent reminds of the perfume your wore behind your ear, goodnight my love, l will never say goodbye, for one day l will join you in you castle in the sky,

 

Yours always, Sand.

A Letter to Silas

My dear grandchild,

Silas MacKenzie Mathews,

 

You would be a man by now.

So many years have passed.

 

How we wanted you to stay,

but your fragile body wouldn’t let you.

 

Did you hear what your daddy said that day,

your last day here?

He said, “I am proud of my son.

He tried his best to live.

He stayed as long as he could.”

 

Eleven weeks wasn’t long enough for any of us.

 

We still talk about you, Silas.

We still say your name.

We have not – will not – forget

that you were here,

that you were ours,

that you are as much a part of this family as any of us.

You were – you are – real.

 

And we can’t wait for the day

we each can join you where you are.

 

Tell me, do you grow up in Heaven?

Or will you still be that precious baby that we love?

 

Either way, this grandma will be ready

to give you a lifetime’s worth of love.

Hour 4, Dear Sue

Dearest Sue,

Our lives had known so little loss before your death
we hardly knew how to take it.
You left a void near impossible to fill,
though I have tried.
From one former single mother to another,
thank you for the son you raised,
and for showing him what a true life partner could be
when you found your own.

Some called you a witch
when you found water’s flow beneath the earth
with your willow rods.
Others named you horse whisperer,
healing broken bodies and minds
with nothing but your gentle touch
and whispered strengthening words.
Perceptive beyond the norm,
sensing both good and danger within,
you guided and protected all you met.
Your many talents approached
the occult, yet I never knew
a woman both spiritual
and earthbound, before you.

I love you,
mother-in-law.
You are still here.

Inti and the Son – Prompt 3

I’ve been blessed to dance beneath your rays

To lay beneath your warm embrace

But cold comes quickly in the shade

As shadows start to overtake

My god my god, come back I beg

I am not ready for the end of days.

 

Oh, my glorious light

 

What is this that I have defied

For my light to die out right before me

We wail in grief and gather in mourning

Circle our crops and heed your warning.

Please accept our offerings .

 

Oh, my glorious light

 

He promised not to scream– he was my good little one

Jahni’s blood blessed the ground that we stand upon.

Take him, I beg to our glorious sun.

The rays lift and warm me but my son is gone.

Oh, my glorious light

 

 

Eternity Now (Hour Three, A Nonet Poem)

 

Eternity Now

 

Eternity now, why would you wait,

when forever could start today?

You could sing with the angels,

drift away on a cloud,

grab a golden harp

and learn to play.

Lord, please show

me The

Way.

 

(A nonet consists of nine lines, with a syllable counts as follows: 9/8/7/6/5/4/3/2/1, so the poem appears to ‘disappear.’ This poem was inspired by selecting a random prompt, which was originally posted during Hour Three of the 2017 Poetry Marathon, asking you to select one of several provided images and use it as a starting point for your poem. I chose the image above which says “Eternity Now.”)

OH, Playing catch-up already!

Rain knocked the power out for a bit, but I have my poems started… posting in order now!