The Poetry Marathon

Queen walk

Some people don’t like the way that queens walk….I always wondered why the way I walk envoked so much discussion My hips do not protrude voluptuously nor does my behind sit apple picked perfect. Yet my crown does rest center squared delicately but purposely upon my head always being held to the heavens Back erect neck elongated stride nothing less than femininity itself steps that were never taught Grace and poise trickle deep within my being growing stronger with each generation evidence so clear as I Witness my princess’s arrival to her throne legs thick stronger than most built different inside and out what they do not Know is the physical does not direct my steps these limbs move unbenouncingly confidentiality by my ancestors

The Curious File of #39

She had, as we say in the industry, a flat affect. Relaying
a monumental series of traumas; from a stepfather
with indecent proclivities, to a stolen Dodge pickup,
the night she spent in the woods after her aunt forgot
to count children when she packed up the campsite,
to the cop who violated her with his baton two blocks
away from the homeless campus downtown; her eyelids
never twitched, her fingers steady as she patiently brushed
a stray hair from her forehead. I wrote that her voice
was warm and low, but rarely ventured from its singular
baritone note. Until she recounted the recent escapade
that resulted,for now, with her sitting stiffly in a chair,
approved by corporate for its ergonomic properties.
With the vigor of a newly converted Christian, she leaned
toward my desk, urgency pushing her breath out in quick gasps.

‘I had to leave that night, that’s why I took Nick’s car, I couldn’t stay another minute, I couldn’t bear it again, it hurts so much, every time they do it, and you get it, right? I mean how would you feel if worms were leaving the forest by the dozens and climbing through your window just so they could cut you open with their razor teeth and leave those nasty chips in your stomach. Look, here!’

She lifted her pink t-shirt; her torso was smooth, unscarred.
I mumbled empathetically, unable to commit but unwilling
to alienate myself as we were just getting acquainted.
As I scribbled furiously about dysphoria, delusions, hallucinations,
she pulled a ten-inch-thick folder from her bag, placed
it gingerly on my notepad, her large brown eyes begging me
to believe her.

Facebook therapists 7/24

Everyone has a cure
for everyone else’s suffering
and nobody cares
who they’re
minimalizing
Have you tried
this diet, or that one?
Have you tried to go for a run?
Have you tried anti-depressants?
No, not the one you’re on.
You spend too much time inside. Do you ever see the sun?
Take a nature walk.
Call someone to talk.
Meditate.
Do you eat too late?
Eat early, eat less.
Are you managing your stress?
Have you tried yoga?
You should adopt a cat!
Are you seeing a therapist?
Maybe you should quit.
Try some drugs. Oh, you do?
Maybe those drugs just aren’t for you.

Try a vitamin.
Move out of your house,
Get a new job,
It couldn’t get worse.

Stop worrying so much.
Or you’ll end up dead,
The cure to mental illness,
is in this Facebook thread.

Barred the Eye’s Seeing

Silence is an echo unable to find its way home, a name

dangling mid-stasis. A mother cradles a dead son in her lap.

She sits alone in an empty room, the walls cider blocks,

the high ceiling with an oculus built into it, an eye

open to the elements. Tonight it will rain for hours.

 

Grief is a lunar eclipse, the moon blocked

from shining. A soldier cups hands around a guttering candle.

It is dark everywhere, except for these lit fingers,

these glowing bones, a Sprachgitter, a cage for words

now made visible inside his body. Tomorrow

he will suffer a broken hip and cry out for his mother

before he drifts into the first stage of unconsciousness.

 

Death is an envelope bordered in black, a paper tongue

glued to the mouth’s roof. No need to ask

or tear the envelope open hurriedly. Inside

you will only find another made of tissue, a mourning shroud,

a second skin. A sigh escapes

when you slit the delicate undergarment open

and expose a plain white card, no flowery verses,

no grasping, just the finality of a yesterday

there’s no returning back to.

Hour One: Angel of Light

Author’s Note: A poem that talks about my alias name, and no, it’s not supposed to fully rhyme. It’s freelance poetry. Enjoy!

I am the girl who never sleeps,

the girl who’s capable of haunting your dreams.

Yet I am the girl who has one of the kindest souls,

who has found enough willingness and wisdom not to hand out coals.

I am the girl who writes out of great pain,

dying to her false self with much to gain.

Today Angel of Light is born.

I hope all of you don’t mourn.

Hour Seven

Birthday Surprise

a sliver of light in the darkness
eyes blink against the unwanted brightness

laughter seeps through thin walls
where fear sits heavy bristling fur

tiny hands lift lid
dispelling fear

replacing it with all that flows
from boy to dog

from the inside out

from the inside out

 

OOOO

EEEEE

Like the keening of ancient mothers –

breast beating

throat tearing

savage grief

between bomb blasts

and gunshots

through deep, blue skies the color of lapis.

 

OOOO

EEEE

Like the scream of birth

or death

or sex

all mysteries never truly known to us until we get there.

 

OOOO

EEEE

Coming unhinged

for love or death

when neither seemed to be an option.

 

OOOO

EEEE

The wind

through shuddering branches

in a hurricane

or lightning storm.

Or prayers to all the Gods to keep them standing

breathing

grieving

living

dying

arching into all of it.

R. L. Elke

© Aug 5/17 prompt 7

The Journey Begins

And thus our journey beings.

We thrust our ships into the waves,

braving the wild unknown.

Fists raised high in defiance of the storm,

Thor shouts his pleasure on the rising gale.

Our offerings to the All-Father are many,

his crows guide our way.

 

The voyage is long.

The ending unsure.

Yet, on we strain.

 

Should we end in death or glory?

Only Odin can see.

Our end is not known,

the glory is the voyage,

and glorious battle.

To return home with treasures piled high,

or to wake in Valhalla

to feast in the All-Father’s mighty halls forever.

 

Glory awaits!

Up sails!

Out oars!

Let us dance with the coming storm,

our enemies must needs know our wrath.

 

Show your face

Like the sun hiding behind the clouds,
The pearls resting deep in the oceans
Don’t conceal yourself by that silence
At times silence can be as dry as autumn.
So let the words reduce distances, widen bridges
And give meanings….
Truth can be hurting and uninteresting
But it is to be known for a better tomorrow
So, carelessly show your face.

Dancing Dad

Dancing Dad

 

Dancing down the street, show tunes, to the beat.

Smiles and “how are you?”, he really cared to know it too.

Be cheerful on his wall, and be grateful written tall.

Living one day at a time, it didn’t have to rhyme.

His phone calls are so missed, “Hello!” was on his lips.

“What’s for dinner, is all fine?” he asked them all the time.

He looked right in your eyes, he wouldn’t tell you lies.

I miss his presence most of all, without him life feels small.

He passed his heart along to me, so moving forward I can see.

 

– Mary-Jeanne Smith

This picture hung in my Dad’s apartment for many years. I brought it home after he passed. He had 32 years of sobreity in AA when he passed. He really lived his program. He is forever missed. The poetry prompt, of inside out, made me think of him. As he changed his life drastically, from the inside out, like no one I’ve ever seen. Blessed to have had him as my Dad.