The Poetry Marathon

Welcome to my little corner of the world

This is my apartment
my refrigerator is either freezing cold
or room temperature

This is my desk
where my computer is
I prepare to do everything here

This is my sofa—it’s orange!
I do everything here

This is my car
the CD player is broken
but I can still listen to cassettes

This is the bookstore
I come here to buy books, write
and get away from my apartment

This is the grocery store
some people know me by name
some people know me by what I buy

This is the gas station
nobody knows me here
I use gift cards so I don’t have to pay so much

This is the parking lot
José, the apartment manager, passes by:
“Have a great day!”

This is my apartment…

 

---

(22 June 2019, Hour Six)

A Mother’s Love (hour 6)

Nothing is stronger than a mother’s love.
She is witch and woman.
Maternal horror and nightmare to all.

When blood creeped down
Rapunzel’s legs, her mother knew
It was time.

“A room is a small thing of walls,
but your mind is so much more.
We must protect you.”

The witch was right as only a woman can be.

The men came from all over,
calling to young Rapunzel,
“Let down your hair. Open your legs.
That’s how we’ll teach you to behave.”

Rapunzel let down her hair,
wrapping it around their necks,
slicing her tendrils off in chunks.

She loves watching their bodies sway.
The chiming of their bones taught her to dance.
The yells of their surprise taught her to sing.
The pull of their hands taught her to fight.

Her mother helped her survive,
trapped in a world full of hungry, wolfish men.

Price

Squish!

The mud pulled on my Keds,

each step stretching tired muscles.

Slurp!

Moisture began skipping up my jeans;

the cuffs slowly becoming bricks of clay.

OOMPH!

The septic marsh was winning.

My legs no longer willing to even try.

Sigh!

Strong arms tug me twice and

I leave behind a beloved red shoe…

 

The price paid for a journey attempted.

 

What Love Looks Like

Biscuits and gravy!
I wasn’t much of a cook,
but I had a family to feed,
so I learned the scientific formula to create magic
from flour and fat and leavening,
from flour and fat and milk.

I experimented to find more perfect formulas,
and 21 times most weeks,
I put my formulaic meals on the table–
meat and bread and vegetables.

When I knew more, I weaned them from sugar,
from fat and flour,
kept experimenting
because delicious is as important
as healthy.

I stir honey and blueberries into yogurt,
cut cantaloupe instead of cake,
serve greens every day, seasoned with seeds
and spices, pickled beets and fresh tomatoes,
flavors from every continent,

and when my granddaughter visits,
lay in a supply of good aged cheddar,
white and crumbly,
and can upon can of pork and beans.

Hour 6 OH THE TALK

Oh this big talk here
And so much cloudless laughter
And my butt is too big

Metamorphosis

The caterpillar does not know good from evil,

Or life from death

The caterpillar simply lives;

Takes the day by its dawn

And keeps going until the setting sun lulls him to sleep

He knows that there is something else inside of him,

Something yet unbecome,

He knows this because he has spent all of his life so far

Building up to something greater; something

Some people would call destiny

(A caterpillar, of course, would never have considered destiny;

their vocabulary is too small, and not like ours to begin with)

He surrounds himself with gluttony

Eats and eats until the sound of a nearby robin scares him away

One day, when he would be too fat to move anyway,

He awakes with something different stuck in his tiny brain

So off he goes,

And he finds a lonesome branch

Surrounds himself with inch after inch of soft-woven silk

Like a flower closing for nightfall

Or a worm returning to the dirt

And when the last thread of silk blocks out the burning sun

The caterpillar finds himself in complete darkness

He relaxes all his muscles

And can feel himself sinking into a deep, deep sleep

He does not know much,

But he knows that he will see the sun again,

And that when he does,

All will be good

Prompt #5 Picture prompts: #warning

#warning

 

heights

placed there by adoring sentiments

made to seduce me into the dark embrace of conceit –

removing myself from…

forgetting to remember to honour the muses

who fill me before my pen.

 

it’s a teaching in humility:

this crumpled parcel of longing to reach

above my station

when the ruler of this tiny realm

is the word

knocking me out

tipping me off

when I get too full of myself.

 

(c)

r. l. elke

 

Written in Hour One – Happiness Haiku

Sunshine beams brightly,

golden nectar seeps deeply,

light filling my soul.

HELP

Everything is closing in.

I live in a castle, with gargantuan rooms

And regal tapestries

But, I’m feeling more like Rapunzel-

Trapped in a tower

In this state, I have no power

The more I perspire, the smaller things become.

I am trapped

Everything is just beyond reach-

Healing, Growth, Newness

I see it, but I’m sure that peace isn’t for me.

Anxiety is a bitch

An itch I’d rather not scratch

But like chicks in spring, it must come forth

It must be hatched

And with it, new terrors unleashed.

To the choir you preach,

So your sermons you can keep

Pardon me if I don’t try to escape

I’ve given that up as futile.

And no, I can’t stay for awhile-

I’ve made my peace

And accepted my fate

Anxiety will always be here and it has closed me off from life that I love

So I will just rest in this room that is too small and has become my coffin.

And, really, there’s no need for you to check in.

Just let that sink in…

Anxiety wins

Now, I ask, is that really so much a sin or more so me giving in?

 

 

prompt 7 hour 6

What glorious things you must have

hidden away in your chambers

that you keep oh so coveted

Away from prying eyes

and lingering hands.

Is it lonely in there?

The spaces between beats?

When breath is shallow and uninterrupted.

You keep it that way

locked tight.

If I could only take a peek

just to make sure the cobwebs haven’t

stifled the echo.

Just to make sure the doors haven’t rusted completely shut.

I have yet to find the key, the back entrance or any signs of life.

If I could only take a peek, a shy gander.

Just to make sure

I am not trespassing.

 

C. Churchill