She stared fixatedly at a point Past his right shoulder. ”You are raunchy, loud and a bore.” He smiled With dead eyes. ”You, my dear, are expensive, dramatic and bossy.” This is why they stopped talking to each other.
Hour 8
Poetry marathon
Early starters
Late bloomers
Each find
their way
Their sunny day
In the space
That lies
Between
Both ways
That’s where
I lies…
With my
Amateur
Way…
Ha ha ha..
Sunshine and Storms
Sunshine and Storms
Virginia Carraway Stark
One day you’re coming
Going is fine
Coming up the street
Sunshine on your shoulders
Clouds crossing your path
A delight in the sky
Rain pelting your your path
Refreshing and fine
Only to return
And to find
a tornado has taken
all that was yours
hailstorms have claimed
your crops and your wine
Coming and going
both were just fine
the wind was refreshing
the sunshine divine
how could you know
their was a twister behind you
taking everything you loved
leaving nothing behind
the sun still was on your shoulders
a breeze ruffled your hair
a bit of rain
devastation seemed a nightmare
Hour 8. (2019)
She had bonsai eyes
And cherry cheeks
And hair of strawberry fields
He had cinnamon eyes
And scarlet lips
And hair of wheat ears
I loved them both
Peter Pan (hour 8)
In Neverland, all parts of our childhood hide:
the boy of our youth, the girl of our dreams, and the man of our nightmares,
living by sun and moon, land and sea, adventure and book.
In Neverland, selfishness rules:
a crocodile eating the weak, lost boys who never grow up, and the man with the hook,
but even in Neverland, love is required, so
Tinkerbell was always there for Peter, and Peter, he chose Wendy.
REGRET
REGRET
I loved you after
I let you leave me forever,
then I missed you
The way I miss snow
in summertime heat waves
or warmth in December
The way a drunkard
needs a shot of alcohol
or hippies want peace
I miss you always
dreams become my nightmares and
reality bites hard
© Diane Morinich
/
under the bridge lived a man named sam
he smelled like beer
and he slurred when he spoke
he had no home to return to
he had no job to hold
he had no money left to spend
just a fool who loved with every breath
missed connections
I had plenty of time but he asked for too much of what I had
money pomp and circumstance
Seemed to be what mattered to him
For me it was the chance to move energy
and see what happened when we did
It was fun for a while
the way two people don’t give eachOther what they came for
prompt 9: Prairie love
I loved this song! I wrote the poem while I listened to it. I have never done this before. Usually I listen to the song and write after. I found that little pieces of the song would jump out and find their way into the poem. So, any lines from the song I will go back later and identify them some how. Thank you, Caitlin for this beautiful song.
prairie love
dust coats my feet,
bare toes to the Earth
as it should be –
I pray with my bare soul to these prickles
and tiger lilies
wild in the sunlight.
clouds of my foot prints
lead me to:
those fallen barns
holding more than dried lumps of what horses leave in their wake
of meals once eaten;
to fallen barns holding
first groping loves in slanting hay lofts
what green-eyed boys leave in their wake
in the hint of sweet grass scents swimming in our hair
our heads
our hands retracing places those green-eyed boys traced, too.
or tufts of cottonwood seeds gathered around
those bare toes
reminding me of
snow-filled days when fires in barrels
filled abandoned train cars with light and warmth
of adolescent laughter,
tinkling of icy beer bottles in paper cases
hoping love would warm
or teach
this dear,
young heart
to love with body
and spirit.
these past years
my feet,
dust coated and praying,
have walked those sacred roads again
with ghosts of those now spirit
holding my hand as I go
to let me know
the land has me now:
holding my dusty feet and frozen hands,
binding my broken heart with bailing twine –
broken by stubborn boys who taught me how to be bare
before the fires ignited in the back 40
in the shadows of cottonwoods
who kept our secrets in the fields.
(c) r.l.elke
2019 – Eight – “Fools”
I’m just a fool now.
Writing on corners.
Not like the hypocrites.
Not like the horders
of slogans
and adverts
and tubs of
dried gravy
and blankets
and wool skirts
from Grandma’s
days in the Navy.
Nope.
Just a fool that’s
as foolish
as fools does.
Dreaming of things is
as foolish
as fools was.
When being seen strangely
was merely unique.
And writing on corners was
was nothing you’d seek
to poke fun at
and run at
with sticks
and with stones.
When poets
were more than just
pens and strange bones.
If poets are foolish
and wasting their time
writing with meter
writing with rhyme
or with
none
of those
things
and with
little besides
but beating
of hearts
and hearts
beating
blood
tides
to drive them before them
on their lonely waves
slave to their words
and wordhorses
as slaves
then I am
a fool and a poet
besides
writing on corners
. . .
believing my lies
. . .
(sharp intake of breath)
(pause dramatis)
If I am a fool,
for believing in art,
believing in love,
with my words in my heart,
should all of the world
be then foolish well?
Or continue to believe
that this heaven is hell?
Fools.