Hour Sixteen
Have you stopped to look closely
at the rolled-out insides of a crushed squirrel?
I did the other day. They were pale red, a mess, mundane.
I would have lingered longer,
but for my companion.
She was impatient for lunch.
Anne with an E
Anne with an E
I stepped off of the train,
carpet bag in hand,
to the beatific face of that glorious man!
Matthew Cuthbert of the angelic, golden halo –
or so it seemed as he sat under the blossoming cherry bough.
Nearly,
nearly I was passed over because all for want of a boy
to help Matthew with the chores.
Nearly,
nearly was I passed over.
Marilla nearly sent me back
but for Matthew, my saviour!
They came to love me,
through my mis-steps
and mistakes:
the missing brooch, as the Lady of Shallot
getting Diana drunk on cordial
instead of giving her cider for our tea party
and breaking that slate over Gilbert’s head
when he called me “Carrots.”
I became their pride and joy,
long after my Matthew passed –
Marilla said she was glad I wasn’t a boy.
I gave sons to the Great War, you know?
Jem came home –
lost and changed –
but my sweet poet Walter remains in Courcelette where he fell.
No DCM[1] could bring him back:
hero or no hero.
So I mourned,
two babies,
my first and my soldier-poet son.
I tried to be strong for the others but it wore on me…
those ghosts.
Without Gilbert,
my rock,
I would have surely succumbed to despair and melancholy.
But here we are,
lost in the reverie of memory from the dusty shelves of the library.
Kept alive in the cozy bed time reading time
or dozy summer beach time.
For that, I heartily thank thee,
kind readers, all.
R. L. Elke
© Aug 5/17 prompt 16
[1]DCM= Distinguished Conduct Medal
heart blown away
Random Prompt 2016 Poetry Marathon Hour Seventeen Heart broken poem
Neoidealism meeting INFJ
ideology in its embargo
looking for cause
attainable feasible concept
adhering in the light of matters
enlivening in the world living
enchanting tale sensing
out of cornerstone growing
pathway departs
always moving forward
engaging at all time
loves rules all
The separation in 13 parts, 16
1. the announcement
I broadcasted the departure – as you
and you on boats,
ferried away from
our resting place,
your funeral
our bed.
2. the revokation
I limited the exposure I had to the sun – as you,
and you on beaches,
scurried away from
the glances,
my funeral,
your hands.
3. the eviction
Simple. One day.
A remedy, a removal.
Clothes and cleavers stacked into
the back of an unforgettable buggy,
skunked up
in my absence.
4. the rekindle
All stubborn flames try to re-light
in the wrong exposure,
but I smelled another smoke on your breath,
and I choked us out
5. the sizing
I will never fit into a wedding dress – as you,
and you at weddings
danced away
from my eight attempts at an August proposal.
6. the engagement
Now void.
7. both parts of a narcissist
there is the cause and the effect
for every violent word –
my screaming pinned you to the ground,
your ignorance kept me puking.
you were the c a u s e
and I was the abuse.
8. richocet
I got back
every pin head I put under your foot.
coated them with chocolate
and swallowed them for dessert.
I kept you kept;
you hated your keeper,
not every caged animal
bites the feeder.
9. record
screenshots.
poems.
10. you said…
“don’t write me as a monster in every poem, I really do love you.”
“You think terrible things about me, and I don’t think I can forgive you for that.”
“I don’t have to listen to you. You aren’t my mother.”
11. i said…
“I won’t. You aren’t a monster, I love you too much.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
12. i thought…
“Stop haunting me. I am living in fear.”
“You did terrible things to me, and I don’t think I can forgive you for that.”
“I wanted to be heard, but who could talk over your anger? I only screamed because your hate was too loud.”
13. the survival
I’ll only say I did. (more…)
Prompt# 14, Frog-who
Transparent rain-coat worn
Green frogs perched on strawberries
A jar of tomatoes or children
#13 connections
a phone
a camera
a clock
a calendar
a notepad
voicemail
text alert
news and weather
traffic report
entertainment
one device
does it all
and more
I’m sure
Noble
“Sir Lancelot! Please
don’t put your ale upon the
round table. Leaves rings.”
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Modern Dracula-16
Darkness rising
I am the night
They fear me greatly
but know not my plight
I would have left them alone
Had they left mine the same
Instead they burned the one I loved
And I became their bane.
Poem #16 -miss muffett’s response
poem#16
(a response to the spider who frightened Little Miss Muffett)
sometimes one may thinketh thyself alone
so siteth quietly to have a bite-
then suddenly along some other thing
shall come and givest rare a fright-
and push thyself unexpectedly
from thy cushioned perch unto the floor
then in some heated rage
thy come most def undone
and vent with swift and heated pace
a most befitting blow for one-
and swat that thing that didest come
to frighten thyself away-
with satisfaction knowing he’ll not live
to see another day.
Our Miss Brooks
Our Miss Brooks goes home at night,
Where the rooms are empty,
The chairs are silent,
There never were any of her own children, and the
Work is never done.
Papers to grade of course and
Dinner to drink. A page of curricular notes for
Admin, required and universally ignored.
This scribbles out on auto-pilot while she
Smashes her mind into silence with
Imbecilic info-tain-news-ish-ment for those
Precious hours before sleep.
For how could she sleep if her mind wasn’t
Numb? What with the national, state, county,
District, city, and neighborhood up in arms
Dictating and decimating her job
Daily it’s a wonder she doesn’t go in
Gibbering with her bra on backwards and
Mismatched shoes.
Our Miss Brooks fights for better pay: something
Commensurate with two degrees, a position of public trust,
Ongoing certification requirements, decades of experience, and
Dozens of fragile lives under her thumb.
At least enough to keep her shit together.
Every time she says so in the lounge,
somebody snorts, “You wish” and stalks out.
She fights. Fights the adults for the kids;
Fights the kids for themselves. They really do need a few skills,
Like it or not.
At home alone, she
Fights herself roiling through
Incomplete housework, distant family, waiting until payday for
Groceries, media vitriol blasting, eight more hours of
Unpaid overtime this week (Idealism went and
Volunteered for the damn committee), and a lurking
Migraine probably triggered by the total weight of her
Social fabric.
Our Miss Brooks goes home at night, but
She doesn’t get her rest.