prompt 19: the end

the end

The farther away we get from our Mother,

the more of Her we break

dirty

heap with hatred.

We demand our desires be filled

at Her expense

at our peril.

Our wounded egos filled with all manner of things

to feed our starving souls

made obese on all manner of images made to make us blind,

hate our neighbor,

deaf to the weeping willows begging us to remember our beginnings

when love made us all.

 

When love made us all,

we could not know our destruction did not hide in darkness or hate

but in greedy indifference.

 

(c) r.l.elke

Monthly Pass

The best and the worst of humanity comes out on the bus
A microcosm of camaraderie, solidarity, cultural exchange, ethnic strife
Whether the people up front move out of the way and help fasten down an old woman in a wheelchair
or everyone yells to the driver if someone is running up about to miss their ride
or some tom clancy looking dickbag decides to chime in when a black woman smacks her kid- boy that was a loud one
besides them it was just me and the driver and neither of us were getting involved in that shit
But it’s more good than bad, we’re all locals
we’re all stuck here
we all sort of get along
Like when the whole bus was roused in a discordant chorus of ‘that’s what’s up’ when we passed the construction site of a new Popeye’s popping up in town
I said nothing but I did nod knowingly
Popeyes is the bomb, screw KFC
New warning signs were put up; now in English, Spanish and Hanzi
Since the population from mainland China has exploded in recent years
they’re foreign students and they’re locals too
it’s almost like we live in a real city
an oasis of Tech Money in the middle of Nothing Nowhere USA
almost makes me proud to live in Illinois
almost
My car broke down, it needs a new starter
and some medical emergencies prevented me from ponying up the cash
so I’ve become one of the bus regulars and I’m starting to blend with the rest of the weirdos
I wonder if everyone learns everyone elses’ schedule or it’s just me.
A group of guys file on every day, all kind of gimpy and weird looking,
I think they all stay together in assisted living, they’re a riot.
The other day they piled on board from the park and they had gas station hot dogs, and they lead a chant, stomping their feet, singing some song that I didn’t understand
as badly as I wanted to join in

Some old man stepped on and said one thing to the driver:
“cubs are looking good this year”
the driver replied, “mm hm”
I think that exchange sums up the bus.

Hour 17, Mystified

I peer over the shoulders
of strangers, a tourist
in my own body.

Am I here?
I ask myself,
nonexistent until noticed.

No one turns back,
meets my gaze,
and sheepishly glances away.

Their attention is focused
forward, to a future
misted and glazed
into indistinctness,
a mesmerizing smear of colors,
pierced at times
by muted headlights
swimming toward me
and veering away,
repelled.

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.)