24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
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
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
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.
Tattoos on each extremity,
a barbell through my tongue,
a squid trails behind my ear.
Outside in the sunshine
I feel most at home
amongst blossoms and leaves.
How naturally unnatural I am.
Sleepless from a dream of
Scotch-Irish eyes meeting mine
as he closes in for a kiss,
I linger at the open window
let humidity stifle my desires.
It takes a while.
I lay back down, pretending
I can feel his heat
against me, but know he is
oblivious to my heart.
In his sound slumber he
dreams instead of World Cup
finals – Slainte! and that
long ago girl he can’t forget.
The empty classroom echoed,
books boxed, papers filed, shelves clean,
awaiting the new year.
The busy classroom echoed,
papers shared, problems discussed, bodies in motion,
energized by the new day.
I yearn for both.
The orange tabby kittens were found together.
Brothers of other mothers, bonded yet the same.
A package deal for adoption, they came home.
She was one of three remaining in the litter.
Wrinkled, wriggling, wrestling with her siblings.
She was smaller, then she grew.
Separate species, super siblings. Four footed family.
From another day
and far away
soft memories like ghosts
float through my mind
and ruffle my soul.
A love of simple things,
long summer days,
kind people with flaws,
baby goats, big dogs.
Our young eyes saw everything.
We noticed small changes
and wondered at beginnings.
We studied it all..
And loved all we saw.
It formed our bones and it became us–
the songs, the sounds, the smells,
ashes from old fires, rusty barbed wire,
stored in a heart made large for memories.
It was our life.
And through it all,
the spreading oak bowed low
to show a resurrection fern,
its message from the past
saying it is never too late.
We can always go home.
Sevenling
My father was a complex man:
Honourable, wounded, dark of wit & mind
Not always good with children.
These things he also gave into my hand:
Myth & legend, healing, the books I read of every kind,
Family to pass down to children.
I am as contradictory as he was.
books sit on my shelf waiting
poems, fiction, always baiting me on
none want to make me yawn
books they want to spawn visions
some even use fission
i never saw a Grison so used
though i may be confused on that
attempts are sometimes scat you see
others make the marquee
those that have found the key we read!