The Poetry Marathon

Hour Twelve: A Metaphor in Search of Meaning

Could this be

half a mandala —

a symbol for

half the universe?

Is this half the sorrow

before transformation

or the joy at the center?

 

Or is your gift

a lace fan —

unfolded to display

cool images of holy contentment — or

are these plumes of a strutting  peacock

cast in black and white —

showing off his beauty in

search of companionship?

 

It’s a mandala

of a different hue

a different nature

It’s the universe

celebrating my half journey,

inviting me to enter for joy and beauty,

for contentment and companionship.

Hour 12: Both/And Body

Em(   )ment

 

The body is a temple / old house / balloon

visions of self/future/health always getting stuck in the attic / helium / throat 

And the spirits / cobwebs / voices won’t let them sink down any lower

 

The body never arrives / dies /  lives because it is already here / dead / invisible  

With toes / talons / notions  gripping the present / past / future 

While your lightheaded skull  is still stuck in yesterday / age 13 / age 16 / age 2

When you first found out about death / love /sex  and that it leaves bodies behind 

And were terrified / curious / surprised enough to call the front desk

And request early / late check out

 

Decapitation and dissociation are the same

If you never know a body, you will never have to miss it / feel it / name it 

 

But you can still spend a whole afternoon thinking about the backs of your knees /appendix/ tonsils / spare parts

You can think of them without ever knowing them 

Thinking and  Knowing are not the same  

 

A body can be reclaimed / reborn / renamed 

You can crawl into your own / someone else’s skin 

Feel your fingers / hands / palms spread cool gel across your  / their shins

Placing arnica / ice / kisses over the resulting bruises 

The skin 

That is just one continuous organ / map / chamber folding over to meet its own parts

Anywhere Outhouse (3 nonets) – Hour 11, Prompt 11

A ragged outhouse, deep in brambles

If I enter, clothes be shambles

its insides like fire, golden

with tons of bright buttons

one finger to push

feel a great whoosh

and a pop

time stops

door

opens

outside, new

a Venice view

not believing eyes

turn to face the disguise

now a gondola here floats

so I jump into the old boat

a button I seek inside the hull

voila, in French reads “on y va”

”let’s go” with just one touch

in outhouse again

open door then

Eiffel, but

here, I

stay.

 

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-23

 

 

Rachnoc Haiķu 12 hour 12

Ship dashes on rocks,
He runs to the ghost boat,
Rachnoc awaits inside.

Cave beckons, she drowns,
Eyes whiten, drowning the sound,
Little boy’s shrieking.

Rachnoc spreads his limbs,
Engulfs the child, sucking,
Feasting on his flesh.

Two become Rachnoc,
Boy’s mother forgets with haste,
Only he can see.

Don’t Bite

cw: none

When the canary bites gentle hands,
two things happen:
the canary gets hurt
or they leave, and never come back.

It doesn’t want to bite.
It pulls out its own feathers,
as penance for its sins,
and starves itself off its vellum diet.

It knows better;
it knows to not bite.
So then why…
why does it keep biting?

The name of the Lord is a strong tower

The name of the Lord is a strong tower. The righteous run to it and are safe
Running slows down my pace
“Hallowed be thy name”, my heart calls out. I dance and shout in praise seeking the Lord’s face. In response, the heavens shower the blessings of the Lord
With arms stretched wide, I continue to praise.
I’m still running to the tower, I taste the smell of my weariness as running slows down my pace.

But the Bible says Elijah outran the chariots of Ahab to Jezreel.
Even logically, when you run, you arrive at a place faster.

It is the red sea of doubt that breaks you.

I think about it, this mad joke of a brain is playing tricks on me.

The brain makes things happen to you when you are deserving. The four poles of the world meet on my head. The world is a triangle, so the three ends meet in my head.
Hallowed be your name Lord.

Estoy bien. je vais très bien
The sweet brain of mine keeps playing a trick on me

the old wooden chair

On the Grandma and grandpa’s farm, there was a wooden chair

that spent about half its life outside and the half on the back porch.

It had no varnish or paint left on it.  It wasn’t worth the trouble to make it look good.

My grandma sat on it when she plucked the chickens and when she sorted the eggs out into sizes.

She took it out into the barnyard when my grandpa was late and sat perfectly still on it (praying I suspected),

waiting to hear his tractor coming.

It wasn’t special or was it?  its usefulness was beyond measure.  It was replaceable and not especially attractive, but it was part of the farm, and I honored it my fellow part-time worker.

Closets Deconstructed

Closet turns into schrank, placard, aron, and armario,
all masculine nouns in German, French, Hebrew, or Spanish–
but deconstructed, différance in hiding places vanish,
even if labeled armoires, lockers, or just cupboards,
yet a clean, tidy closet is often its own reward,
while secrets festering deep inside are often abhorred.

Prompt 12: in between

in between

“it’s in between,”

they said

when I asked where the centre is in this wandering in wonder

but I don’t know if I know what that really means.

is it the light

or the dark?

or neither

or both?

or all?

all…in those eyes…watching out for me

holding me

in between.

r. l. elke

Hour Eight

Extraordinary in the Ordinary

Though today

was just another day,

It was more,

So much happened

So many memories.

 

Perhaps what makes

The extraordinary

Is that we forget

To stop to see.