The Poetry Marathon

Sense

Sense

Senses
Portal to the present
The texture of presence

Where invisible and external
Meet and commune
Indivisibly twining stimuli and feeling

The origin and engine
Of all you perceive as you

In every moment

Beckoning you to be
A kaleidoscope of sensation
A tapestry of subtle sifting
A tumultuous confluence

The border guardian of the being
You have traced at your skin’s edge
and
The you that stretches to infinity
Dances on air molecules
A breath already sustaining trees

A chemistry that even beyond
Touch, sight, taste, sound, and smell
Will scatter and blend

A part and particle of everything

five

i struggle to count
the stars in the sky
because it hurts to lie
on my back

the earth does not welcome
my spine

nostrils inhale soft dirt
intoxicating
the newness of it
potential
possibility

fingernails grasp at
the permanence

forehead pressed firm
into the dirt
keeping the slugs company
trusting there is still a spin
in the stillness

knowing that my crouched figure
is safely hurtling through
the universe
the stars at my back

Hour 5: Post 5: Blood Lust

Tear me open

Rip me to shreds

Feed off my soul

Bathe in my passion for you

Take me as you wish

In the midnight hours

Which you seem to dwell

Lay with me in the darkness

Let me take you to hell

Fingers deftly dance
Clicking across clacking keys
Nothing comes to mind

The Dream

It’s scary in here. In this vessel I can’t move, can’t breathe. I’m hyperventilating. I can hear the sound but can’t feel the air.

 

Theres someone behind the curtain. Off to my right. There’s someone else, or maybe the same thing, at the foot of the bed.

 

The shadows of long bony fingers are reaching for the corner. Help!

In this vessel I can’t move.

Hour 4

The baby is asleep

Now is her time

To take a nap

Take a shower

Cook a meal

Do the laundry

Eat hot food

Read a book

Watch a show

Call a friend

Wash my hair

The list goes on

She can’t get up

She can’t choose

And time runs out

Baby needs her mommy

She doesn’t have the strength

Yet she will go

Feed, burp, change, soothe

As the cycle starts anew

Night will bring the suppressed tears

And day will just come and go

Tomato is a Fruit

Down a two lane road

In Southern Alabama

Thousands of seeds are sowed

Prompt 2: places we cannot name

places we cannot name

I am taught

we are all one.

I read the wind with my fingers to soil –

could hear incantations of freedom

in the whisper of poplar dancing leaves forced into jigging

by gale-force Prairie winds

like those dancers in enchanted shoes forced to gyrate to death.

 

Everyday holds transformation

big and small

so that tincture

powder

or incantations

need not appear before breaking dawn

or remembrances of how to love in forgiveness:

people

lives

pieces of ourselves we have hated.

 

My Ancestors would have seen this as life;

now we long for it as something from the places we go we cannot name.

(c) r. l. elke

Morning stroll (Prompt 3/4)

the wind reminds me there is more

than self

more than what self consumes life with

the wind brushes against my skin fairly

undiscriminating,

freely,

softly,

lovingly

touching the parts of my flesh clothes don’t cover

My eyes fail while attempting to catch a glimpse

of something from this earth that freely

dresses me in ways fleshy bodies have not

wind proves to me, that I have feasted in darkness.

 

Front Door Nester

Front Door Nester

 

It sat upon the front door light well made

Needing to move the roost before the eggs arrived

 

The human carried the empty nest to the barn

Settling it down on a rough hewn beam

 

Instructing the mother-to-be kindly yet firmly

To find a more convenient place for the children

 

Overnight the nester built a new grand liar

Straw and mud anchored to the same black lamp

 

Resigned she was allowed to stay as the human

Studied robin gestation and maiden flight

 

The doorway remained dark four weeks

Using the old porch door an inconvenience

 

Respectfully observed the babies arrived

Fed by a proper mother working full time

 

Feathers filled in on popping heads

Exposed wide mouths lusted for food

 

It would be a Friday the human surprised

Grieved the empty nest

 

TobeTT  #4