Blind (hour 17)
I’m blinded by love and hate.
In loving you, I hate myself.
I’m bond by hate and love.
Your hate makes it hard to breathe,
so I love you, hoping it’ll be enough.
The unseen scene
Pic #1
Inside the air conditioned bus,
playing ‘We don’t talk anymore’
loud in my ears,
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
A sudden break,it hurt my forehead.
Next to me,a child was looking at me, curiously,her smile enigmatic.
It was raining outside,
with raindrops
sliding down the window.
The traffic lights,
beautiful than ever before.
I have eyes,vision but was blind!
(Hour 17) 14.30pm-15.30pm. PROMPT, use image/s to jump off
Warwickshire parlance
. “Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers, come to dust,”
Cymbeline
Did Will wish on one of these golden lads
Before his marriage to the elder Anne;
Or perhaps in the hope
of escaping it
Impressions
Every time I write down something
I wonder who will come to know of it
Will this tattered composition book land in the Library of Congress?
Or will it see its end in the garbage heap behind my apartment building?
Will my thoughts and creations capture minds?
Will they fuel rage, sadness, joy, or any emotion?
Perhaps someone will continue the written conversation?
My goofy hello could transform into a game of tic-tac-toe?
Will the endless scribbles turn into exaggerated clues for a hidden treasure?
Or could my name and writing become a documented search for my life?
All possible ventures,
But maybe in 10 years,
I’ll simply unfold the yellowed pages
And day-dream about the simpler times.
Love Came To Her Rescue
With the tantrums she threw,
Why really, nobody knew.
When all that she had,
She was about to lose.
But every single time,
Love came to her Rescue.
With all that she knew,
She never really grew.
With all that she said,
Darkness was all she was to choose.
But every single time,
Love came to her Rescue.
With all the dreams she flew,
She was always new.
But the danger was laid,
Unaware she was, of the blues.
But every single time,
Love came to her Rescue.
With the minds she blew,
She was a staring view.
With the price not paid,
She had her share of dues.
But every single time,
Love came to her Rescue.
With the love so true,
She took an advantage undue.
The words were left unsaid,
About which she had no Clue.
But every single time,
Love came to her Rescue.
prompt 18: in the beginning
in the beginning
the centre is forever
forever begins in the centre
where love makes us all
in the likeness of itself
love wept for gratitude
so that water filled spaces love could not reach.
the heartbeat followed:
resonance of drum beats in darkness
filled with prayers of love,
building fires to light the way against fear.
light and love created space
for us to dance Her into life –
The Mother –
whose body feeds us
even as we defile her
now.
(c) r.l. elke
Dandelion (A Shadorma, Photo Prompt, Hour Seventeen)
Dandelion
Some see a
wish, some see a weed.
Me? I see
tiny white
arms, reaching out for us as
they blow by.
(This is the photo provided in the prompt that I chose to write about. A shadorma is a six line poem with a syllable count of 3/5/3/3/7/5.)
Quest
Mine is a noble quest
I go withour fear
I know that every test
Just means that I’m near
I go withour fear
Through the treasures and traps
I shan’t turn off here
My way’s marked on my maps
I know that every test
Firms up my resolve
To rise above the rest
And all puzzles solve
It means that I’m near
My hard-fought quest’s goal
I go without fear
Bone-weary, but heart-whole
Form: Quadrilew
Prompt: Write a poem about a journey.
2019 – Seventeen – Alexander’s Bridge, an Artists’ Lament
“Alexander build a bridge to Tyre,
I can’t walk a straight line ‘cross the street.
How am I supposed to be my own empire
of one when I’m not good enough for wander meat?”
I think things like this when others opine
that maybe I should chart a course in life.
Well maybe all my foes, some of my friends, whine,
because a lack of course means lack of strife.
I can’t say I’d hide from all the fair fights.
I’d have helped ol’ Alex build that bridge.
But then again my course don’t keep me up nights
except to wonder what’s beyond that ridge.
I spose I could have been a doctor’s lawyer,
not so much the much-sung ‘Indian Chief’,
and though I could have had everything to want, sure
enough I would have stuck and come to grief.
I’ve paints, and paper, pens, and inks and guitars.
A banjo I call Steve to warm my knee.
I’ve goddesses to write for and paint their stars
and goddesses I want, who might want me.
So next time you see an artist working don’t think,
“They could have had so much, how low they fall.”
Look to yourself, your routine, see if there’s a brink
to build a bridge to,
if there’s still time for you to build at all.
prompt 17: remembered to the land
remembered to the land
The day I read:
“the land remembers you, even when you are lost,”
I stopped,
lowered the book,
and wept for every speck of dirt
left behind in places where I left my name,
ragged and bleeding,
while newly, unfurled leaves of wild strawberries –
heart berries –
wrapped themselves around those ragged edges to hold me fast
so I would not disappear.
The land who remembered me,
remembered my bare back on thin blankets,
the delicate summer evening I bargained my virginity
for “coolness.”
It remembered deep February nights –
beyond frigid –
when Aurora Borealis crackled my name to Sky Father and all the Star People.
My dog and I audience to the magnificence of light against dark.
I had lost myself from those days
when that land daily whispered how deeply I was loved
I had lost the voice of those ruddy Mountain Ash guarding the house –
then twigs –
now sentinels so wide I cannot embrace them
and touch my fingertips around the other side.
Upon my return,
to bring my mother home:
ashes to ashes
dust to dust;
those heart berries were the only ones to know me…
that tamed land now wild again…
I could hear my name –
faintly –
in those grasses,
as in the days when I was certain no one did.
Blessed be those little leaves
and the lands who hold us closest.
(c) r. l. elke