The Poetry Marathon

Upon the birth of my child, my fear

Your face was blue when we first
met, the first time I saw you
outside of pictures, outside of me.
Your whole small body shook
with holy cries, hallowed shrieks.
They subsided when your tiny cheek
pressed over my heart, when we breathed
together. You turned pink later
that night, hours passing since you
were forced from my body, laughter
pushing you to join me in this world.
Your movements staccato– too small
to be real, I dreamed you were
an animatronic infant, a sweet
deception. Black hair fell past
your ears, plastered to your neck
by amniotic fluid. But I’ll never
forget that blue, umbilical cord
wrapped around your neck, the first
thing you ever wore after me.

15. Forging of Thor

Ode to the Norse god

Bitter wind whips cloaks and furs as the riders crest the final hill. A fist rises. A signal to hold. Horses wicker, a restless hoof stomps, Words, guttural, soothing and then the wind again.
Below, a village, quiet, silent even. On this, the eve of Samhain, there should be laughter, songs, merriment filling the air next to spiced mead and mulled wine, roasted beef and pork over an open flame, but here, nothing, the wind off the snow, the sound the trees would make if there were any left. The wind cries for the trees. The one with the fist. Removes his helm and hands it to his second, still atop his horse. He dismounts. Speaking soothing words onto its muzzle, guttural, like the purr of some great cat. The horse understands. It’s seen war before. Knows the cost. Riders. 4. Look on as they watch the one with the fist heft his hammer. And march toward the ruins of the town. Dark whispers. Things creeping in the shadows. Slithering. Watching. Nipping at heels underneath ruined houses and charred buttresses. The one with the fist and the hammer marches towards the middle where it must be done. Heavy cloak whipping. Furs against the winters wind. Back on the hill the riders watch their captain march his slow deliberate charge into the blackness of the mist that has since enveloped the village. It knows. Something is here. Back on the hill, eyes shift, under helms. One set looks on, sending silent prayers.
It happens quickly and in succession.
A burst of white-gold light, and a rumble of thunder that starts far off and grows. And grows and grows until the ground feels like it might crumble. Deafening. Then a roar part war cry, part god-like decree, echoes from somewhere deep. A shriek like the casting of millions of unholy voices. Thunder again. Overhead this time. Then the whoosh of great wings. Great raven’s wings on the body of a woman. His shield maiden. His Valkyrie. Gliding. Swooping. Finally grabbing. Clutching. Like lovers locked in lust. Gasping into the skies. Into that velvet swath of jewel encrusted ecstasy.

Wolfe 

Forever loved

I remember like present day.
Our love was precious as an emblem. Nervous but ready. He caressed my body .
My temperature just hit triple figures not to long we landed in bed. His arms trembled as he whispered are you ready I shook my head closed my eyes and breathe deep.

Make Peace

I hated your tattoo.

It took me years

to make peace with it.

When I finally did,

you left me and

had it covered up.

Moonlit Instinct of the Masses (Hour 15)

Lunacy is a phase measured by celestial recession,
Boldly illuminating the beast within,
Its hands itching with malevolent intent.
But I must not give time for the hunger to grow
Or spare a moment listening to the story of my teeth.

And yet senses are growing keen,
and muscles are yearning to run.
The roiling fire in my blood
sings a primal howl in my heart.

Then the withered hand moves to grip the hypertrophic wrist
Repress, repress the beast within!
But without duty, useless, and a needless part of today’s modern dissent,
my purpose returns to the animal nature of my origin.

To hunt, to kill, to roam unencumbered,
to let awaken the monster from conditioned slumber.
It is the awakened animal, mad with instinct
that cannot be shamed by the expectations of society.

There is no spell they can cast, no rhetoric they can speak,
that will settle the parts of my heart that cannot be tamed.
Monster versus machine, I reject the locked cage that was taught to me.
And herald the moonlight, which serves as the key.

I Remembered the Stars

I suddenly remembered the stars-

not the ones in the night sky

but the ones you had tattooed

on your arms while still in high school.

You regretted them as soon

as the needle stopped.

Your buzz was wearing off,

and they were the last tattoos

you ever had done.

You felt like a poser

trying to become

something you’d never be:

a shining light.

The Goddess of Fresh Waters (15th hour)

Let me tell you the tale of my mother

Not the one who physically bore me

The one who the High Priest stated that hovers

Over me, protects me, lives through me

Known to Catholics as Our Lady of Charity

Best known to our Afro-Boriquen brothers and sisters as the

Goddess of fresh waters

Beauty

Love

Luxuries

Pleasures

Fertility

Sexuality

She approaches her children walking through the rivers of many plights

Dancing in her yellow gold dress, adorned in peacock feathers

With tears of joy forming in her eyes

Sweet as honey she seduces love and compassion amongst all who call unto her

Brought over to our Puerto Rican people from across the African seas

Her Spanish name, a cover, La Caridad del Cobre

Her true name divine, la mas linda (the most beautiful), Oshun

 

Hour Fifteen, Myth

Metamorphosis

I drove out to the desert
one cold and moonlit night
in December, testing the theory
of animals speaking human
tongues at midnight Christmas Eve.
My whimsy taught me far older
wisdom, plunged into a deeper
past than my Christian forebears
could ever willingly admit.

The flickering flames that warmed
my body freed my mind to wander,
mysterious sounds layering the night:
crackling and popping mesquite,
screeing crickets, and the shivering
ululation of a single coyote’s cry
to the waxing moon. The night
deepened, approached its zenith,
and as the moon and wood smoke
vied for supremacy, they coalesced
in front of my eyes to a long snout,
gleaming teeth, golden eyes,
and a throaty voice that emerged
as if from the night itself.

“Welcome,” Loki grunted,
“You’ve taken too long to return, sister,”
and with that a long pink tongue
swiped my cheek, and I howled
an irresistible duet with my brother,
in furred glory to the engorged,
engaging, brilliant moon.

Hour 12

I won’t look, no, ‘fraid I can’t

My eyes will stay focused on the black dots

Which stack together just perfectly into little lines

All code

All code

I won’t look, no, ‘fraid I can’t

I have a problem of opinion

Others get the best of me

All code

All code

I won’t look, no, ‘fraid I can’t

I might loose myself

And then where would you find me

All code

All code

Wisdom helps us garner opinions selectively

From days we did not know

Because the days are already gone

And time moves far too slow to ever turn around and go back

So we don’t look, no, ‘fraid I can’t

You see through a bias perfectly as I

And I can’t, look, no

I’m still trying to not limit

My subjectivity of you

Based on my objectivity of others

But all that vity can be confusing

All code

All code

 

Adonis and Aphrodite

Adonis and Aphrodite

 

You are my Adonis;

rippling, marble body

perfect in its beauty.

I am hardly Aphrodite –

more like Medusa –

withering stares turning everyone to stone.

 

But you,

master of perfection,

your gaze shatters my stone prison –

makes me feel like that Goddess who loved Adonis and no other

without heartache for losing him

after warning him not to hunt one day.

Just one day.

 

Like I beg you to be careful

when you do what you do when you do what you do.

I am forever fretting that I will weep over your broken body one day, too.

 

That would kill me.

 

For the little resemblance my face holds to Hers,

I am nothing like her, at all, in immortality.

But you –

you are Adonis in every way but name

and I shall play your fool –

divine comedy –

Aphrodite in my dreams,

or in the forest,

anywhere you rest your beautiful head.

R. L. Elke

© Aug 5/17 prompt 15