Revelation
Low and deep below
High and steep like hiker’s peek
Your choice is endless
Blue Neon Crucifixion
The bright lights,
the cheers, the jeers
of the crowd
pierced my dreams and
my heart pounded through
the fog of sleep.
There was Jesus
on the center cross
and Nixon on his right.
My father’s cross sat
waiting, illuminated
by blue neon.
He led the way
to his end,
smiling, jovial, joking,
while I watched, transfixed,
tears streaming down my face.
What was his sacrifice?
My father turned to kiss me, hug me,
my heart hammering against his thighs.
I didn’t want him to surrender.
My greatest childhood fear:
the death of my father.
His abandonment
lit up the night sky
in the blue neon
of my childhood nightmare.
Eve T. Remillard
Hour 14–Evening Steam
I’m hereby speculating about those
peculating children, I tell you what
My psychic elbow clued me in
to their raincoat shenanigans
They’re smuggling tomatoes in jars
sending bullfrogs to Mars
I’m telling you officer, mystery solved
The Frog and Cricket Cabaret Night
The Frog and Cricket Cabaret Night
Deep hums emulate from beneath
the fringe of the shrubs as the sky
fades to orange to pink, purple,
black. Drizzle mingles with splashes
from rippled puddles and pools, steams
to a boil. Kids in raincoats
and large red boots stomp in the dark,
across gravel, through water,
under leaves. Jars filled with lightning
bugs light their way, makeshift flashlights.
In their other hand, empty
jars, ready to catch the hums.
Giggles become shushed as creatures
leap back into the night, followed
by excited feet. They hide
beneath the corn stalks and fallen
tomatoes. The dirt becomes trampled
mud, ripe for tomorrow night.
jars of magic
jars of magic
the magic light of evening hearkens back to the
mystery of spring,
the calling of frogs at twilight,
and children collecting lightning bugs in jars.
Where did it go?
That magic of frogs and princes
and gilded lily pads?
Dropped to the bottom of the pond perhaps,
or suffocating in jars with the lightning bugs.
R. L. Elke
© Aug 5/17 prompt 14
Hour 14
peculations
and price of tomatoes
in the papers—
the evening fills out
with the croaks of frogs
on the street
two boys elbowing
each other
raising the steam
inside one raincoat
Ain’t Easy…
Props to the Mother that does what she needs to survive
Foodstamp hustle try in’ to keep it real
Bill collectors calling. Getting down to the rhythm of being down,
be cool there too…why trip
Put your pride aside
who wants some funk?
tell me what you like….you like it?
got no mo’ time is your M-O
you ain’t been loved like you should
feel good…you like it?
I know a place
don’t worry, no crooked, lying faces
Help me Lord!
Help me now, I cry Mercy!
Doesn’t take much to smile with glee
the best, you get
of My love
Turn around and find the meaning of fate
What is real?
Fucked fate
Nasty dogs working the streets
You got the stank to hold the captain at
mutiny on a mofo
The Flood (poem 14)
Tomato plants drown in the garden.
I shrug out of my raincoat
and shiver, waiting for the kettle to steam.
Children cry out beyond the kitchen window,
jumping between puddles like drunken frogs,
searching for mason jars in the flood;
the waters continue to rise.
Frogs of the Evening
The brightest tomatoes
are lined up on the windowsill
ready for parboiling, and
putting up into Mason jars.
A raincoat drips in the hallway
while steam gathers in the kitchen.
The children are hollering
and running through the house,
while the woman’s elbows bend
to the quiet rhythm of her work.
The frogs at dusk groan deeply
this time of the year. They discuss
the mystery of winter mud,
and the slow approach of renewal.