The Poetry Marathon

The sun crisping my skin.
Waves birthed on the bay, foaming at conception, breaking amongst themselves.
Washing silt onto shore.
The smell of damp earth and marine greens.
Sand ants march over my toes; every now and then
One nips audaciously at my skin.
(If this is the price of peace; I do not mind).
You lay beside me.
Comforting in your proximity.
I am safe.
I am loved.

Office supplies piled high
should stir my heart and mind
but he defiles all he touches

When they’re used as empty props
to support his thieving aims
he inflames my heart and mind

Virgin folders make it plain
he’s never really worked at all
and when we’re asked to compare

the merits of his policies
based on the amount of paper saved
I exit the political theater

The early morning light always looks so different to me.
It’s angles and tones are softer,
And the shadows slowly creep away,
Hiding in their corners and thickening.

The early morning light always looks so different to me.
The night is usually my domain.
With its cool air and calmness,
I feel my mind open,
And the words and ideas locked inside me find their way to sweet expression.
The light I have comes dimly down,
Or sits stark and unnatural.

The early morning light always looks so different to me.
Other than the quiet padding of my feet on tile,
And the waking tweets and twaddles of the birds,
It’s quiet, but not lonely.
The air fills with possibility for the day,
Opportunities for growth and discovery by the light of day.

The early morning light always look so different to me.
Seeing a new day begin,
And the Earth renew itself,
Gives me a new hope for the future.
That maybe one day,
The fog within my own mind will clear,
And the new day will come shining with a crisp new light.
I will stand there that day,
In wrinkled pajamas and with hair in my face, stomach growling,
And watch as the new day begins sharp and clean,
And the shadows slowly creep away.

wicked, little monster

Wicked, little monster,

dancing on my heart:

two-step, jig, or tapping

tearing me apart.

Holding me for ransom

for a price I cannot pay –

wicked, little monster,

don’t let me die this way.

I beg only for the mercy

I know you have to spare,

wicked, little monster

see how you’ve laid me bare?

Wicked, little monster

can’t you see me bleed,

crumpled, beaten, shattered –

kneeling at your feet?

© R. L. Elke

Aug 5/17  prompt 4

Driving past fields of plenty

longing for the past in our hearts.

Hoping for a taste of remembrance

through sights and smells and tastes.

New landmarks abound

making direction unclear.

Until home peers out

from the monstrous growth.

A refreshing signal

that childhood was here.

Morning walks to the bus stop

Steady steps in the coolness

A ride through my city

An adventure to be discovered.

Steady steps in the coolness

Take me past yipping puppies bravely guarding their people against my menace as I laugh.

Yoga devotees stretch, breathe in, extend, and breathe out again on dewy grass below their mats

Bustling trucks unload wares for Hay and Feed, tattoo shops, ice-cream parlors, music stores, and senior centers

As my inclusive, inviting neighborhood wakes up.

A ride through my city

Into parks and libraries of childhood innocence, playing until evening lights came on to run home for dinner

To the crossroad galleries and coffee shops bringing fresh ideas to rusty dusty roads,

Through construction of newest developments, malls and superstores and spacious homes in the prairie

As each community forms anew each day.

An adventure to be discovered

I assured skeptical friends with expectations of grand world travel, new accomplishments, and grand feats.

Still, my daily walking and vistas over Kansas City rooftops both challenge and exhaust

My shaky self: the next me who’s finding a new normal in a body rewired and under construction

As I create my place in life each gifted morning.

The slow drizzle of gray-turned-rain
laps gently on the canvas covered deck
tapping its own rhythm to the quiet continuo
of Corinthian chimes muting the wind

the slow drizzle of gray-turned-rain
sliding off branch and rail, soaking
the thirsty ground as yellow finches
and the occasional hummer in search of food

lap gently on the canvas covered deck,
the day’s rhythms of hunger and its filing
marking the passage of hours, staging
the shape of a day. Downhill the new house rises

tapping its own rhythm to the quiet continuo
of our life here, its shape and pace
undisturbed by change, though
change unfolds all around us.

swb

Looking up at the night sky
Filled with these little stars
I think back to when i was young
And tried to count them in all seriousness
Sometimes reaching out my hand
As if to get hold of one of them
And getting all dissapointed
Realizing I was just a tad bit short.
I always ended those adventures
With a resolve to grow up
And reach the stars as soon as possible.
Now that I am all grown up
And as tall as I’ll ever be
I wonder where did that resolve went off to….
Maybe it’s among those stars
Still in front of me yet so out of reach.

Surrounded by dead people.

They visit us at home or traveling,

Day or night, asleep or awake.

We see them in other people,

In ourselves.

They’re sneaky.

They pop up in the grocery aisle,

Sit beside us at the movies,

Often join us for dinner at holidays.

The longer we live, the more

Dead people we know.

Accidents, disease, suicide, war

Add to our list of dead companions.

We can be lonely

Even in a crowd.