24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
When the mother lion gave birth to a cub
She pampered him in every possible way
She gave him food, shelder every passing day
Then the time came and she taught him to hunt
So he can do whatever he feels
She taught him that the jungle is his kingdom
But never failed to mention its his home too
Thats how she created the king of jungle
But also someone faithful to his home
Because I am a keener and because I am ready to fall over, I have decided to pull two prompts together – I am replying to an earlier poem in this one about an animal that I have mentioned earlier.
animkiig
I have seen you wandering from here,
on your shores of slate-black lakes,
from this storm I call home
in the heart of lightning’s transformative medicine
where fire opens life
for seeds shut to all but heat…
like you.
be careful what you wish for.
you gazed into the centre
to learn teachings of butterfly.
now you know what transformation feels like,
my claws in the flesh of your left shoulder,
as I know how it feels to
touch the face of the sun to hear Creator’s voice.
because of my flashing eyes,
this world still dances with life
and you still dance, too.
what will you do with that gift?
I hear your prayers in the tobacco smoke,
echoing them in whispers
to Creator’s heart.
you’re welcome.
(c) r. l. elke
His majesty incomparable.
He,is a paragon of musculinity,
but is tender with unfailing fidelity.
He breaks the stereotypes,
the ethereal black superiority,
Elephant.
But,what does he think?
Little do we think.
He dreams,
of violent trumpets,
of a muddy bath,
of caring their calves,
of a kingly wander in the forests.
We only think about ourselves,
never about them,
thus,they live,
in cages,in wood mills,in festivals.
Although living in a cage,
I am a bird; flying in my dreams.
Mine is a story untold;
I wish I was enough bold!
In the question marks I believed,
And in the doubts, I often dived.
I imagined to come out of the cage,
And in my head, I was all free and all set to fly!
Destiny gave chances manifold!
Fearing the flight,
I, still did not give it a try
And so,
Never touched the sky….
Polar winds scarcely hit the polar bear.
This is no time for hibernation.
In the palest of the winter
the abode still melts.
Clinging to life
on a shrinking island
no longer does its hairy frame
disappear against the white ice
but rather contrasts the aqua waters.
Can they see him now?
Those idiots in suits and ties
who play God.
They pay no care
for in the growing warmth
they lavish, play golf.
For the Northern being,
it is a sentence to death.
Once on the Interstate in downtown Atlanta
I saw a goose — a beautiful Canada goose —
trapped against the concrete barrier
that separated North from South.
I saw him in a blur
as I whizzed by at 80.
Alive, terrified, he pressed himself as far
from the traffic as he could.
There were so many cars —
there wasn’t room for him to stand up,
to fly, and he must have been hurt
or he wouldn’t have been there at all.
I think of him still sometimes
though it was years ago now.
I wonder now long it took
for him to die in terror.
All he wanted was
to go back home in Spring.
It truly is the inception of everything.
A thousand miles and poles apart make all the difference in the world.
I take assurance in the fact that I’ll never be without the serenity of
your essence. We sit on the edge of the world where your conflicting
existences collide into the dark. The truth lies far beneath the
war-torn surface. They’ve just been too buried in their own
drowned existence to grab a shovel. Make it to the end
and hope for the sweet release. It’s much more
satisfying than you might think.
Braced For It
I wear my brace day and night but nothing
seems to help. Tore a tendon in my wrist.
And life is not the same. Can’t brush my hair
or brush my teeth, or even tie my shoe. Can’t
push or pull or press without pain. I wake
up at night in searing pain waiting
for it to heal. It throbs and throbs and throbs.
I hope it will heal, but when it doesn’t,
I say a prayer. Ask for healing. Go to mass,
lay their hands on my skin, trace their fingers
on my bones, and make a wish.
My furry friend my faithful companion my playmate my guardian. You were always brave, with those expressive eyes you'd always manage to get your way. Even when caught red handed...
Oh what simple pleasures satisfied you, playing fetch,
Taking long walks in Albert Park
digging in the backyard and hiding the bones. And how you'd clean my plate up and eat my veggies for me.
You were such a good boy.
How you'd wag your tail to express your excitement upon my arrival from school. How you planted those adorable big wet kisses upon my face. My true partner in crime. You will always be my little boy. My golden sun, My brightest days, My little boy. -Janice Raquela Mendonca
Freddy was a good boy.
He’s the first dog I remember.
Mostly spaniel, a little beagle
maybe,
all black and white,
with spots.
He didn’t have a collar
or a leash.
Dad had a hank
of white nylon
rope
and he’d tie it
loosely
around patient
Freddy’s neck
and we’d go hunting,
Freddy, Dad, and
three-year-old me
in my denim
farm tuxedo
and
those pointy-toed
little cowboy
boots.
I don’t think
my Fred
ever flushed a quail
or retrieved a goose.
I’m not sure Dad
ever pulled the trigger
and my cap rifle
wouldn’t bring down
a damned thing.
But we’d go home,
tired and exhausted.
Muddy and happy.
Ma would toss Dad and I
in the tub,
and Freddy would wait
beside to
follow me to bed.
I used to lick
my lollipops and
stick them to him
while he napped in the shade.
I’d come back
and retrieve them later.
He’d watch me to the gate
when I went to school.
He’d be there waiting
when I came home.
After Dad passed away,
Mom brought home a collie,
a big, gorgeous collie named
Champ.
But I never took to him,
I had Fred.
Fred was my dog.
He was a good boy.
And I was his,
his good boy.
He’s been gone a long time
now.
Close to forty years.
I miss him still.
I’ve never had another dog
They say you get just one,
that one special dog that
no other measures up to.
I had mine already.
I had my Fred.
And Freddy’s dead.
I’ll never get over that.