The Poetry Marathon

Axe Work

It has a rhythm.
Like a heartbeat.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
A simple, clear song.
Muscle, tool, and wood.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.

It doesn’t just cut
It’s not a saw.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
Wood is crushed
Pinned aside.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
The gaps deepen
With each new strike.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.

The tree grows weak,
The arms grow sore,
The shadows stretch.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
But each new stroke
Stays steady and strong
Will, tough as oak.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
Twilight creeps in
Like moss, like age.
A tree trembles.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.

One more, last swing,
Felt soles to skull.
A fond farewell.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.

6 – cavern

I roam,

the edges of this small cavern,

my hands running along the damp walls

I sit alone in this crowded room,

the chatter deafening,

words bouncing,

thoughts screaming,

then I forget and all is quiet,

sleeping in my prison..

 

She

She was the scent that lingered heavy in the air after a thick and heavy summer rain.

She was the sun that burst through the gray clouds, absorbing the moisture, she was the humidity that saturated your skin

She was the smell of perfume that clung to the fibers of your clothes.

She was all I knew, all I wanted to know

Now, She is a lingering thought at 2:37am

She was everything, and now she is nothing

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