The Poetry Marathon

Earth, Wind and Fire

From dust to dust I shall return to earth, imperfect because,
My earthly soul is masked with pretension and sin
In a quick sweep of the wind,
My spirit becomes mellow and meek, flexible and obedient
And when on fire, my body is in hell with sarcastic people surround me.
It soothes my soul when touch by water. It soften my attitude by the quick brush of spring water of baptism, that helps cool me down.
A Leo born, symbolizes the elements of earth, wind, fire and water in all aspect of life.

9:00 means 7:00

skin learns soil
with a naivete of nerve
swirling paths in rich cocoa
stubby fingers, toy cars

skin proceeds to smolder
with no preamble
a blinking look about
a white-hot army of questions

skin knows breath
as the fires slowly diminish
we open our eyes in the street
we flex our claws and build

skin meets tide
in all its fickle glory
fashionably late
two hours early

Early One Morning

It’s not always easy getting up
to squint toward sunset’s fireball.

This time of year, even the mossy footpaths
have dried to dirt, and blow harmless

tornado bouquets. The scent of alder
mixes with the sweat of the horse who

is running uphill toward forests and vistas.
She churns her hooves as if every step

might be her last. Not like you think.
But like every step is her first, too.

Like this is the day that will be
the most important of her life.

Like she’s taking you along
just for the ride.

Hour one: I am a child of—

Prompt for Hour One

I am a child of—

by willjxn

I am a child of the winds;

Born in the fires of countless suns,

Heaven traveled,

Earthbound,

Rain lent.

I am a child of of the earth;

Born of moistened clay,

Family rooted,

Water nurtured,

Star reaching,

Wind sent.

hour 1: hear my truth

My roll of thunder was too loud
to hear the taunts that day
when I strutted
my bedazzled orange tutu
to school, and my shoulders never crumbled
as I slipped into my tights
and stepped into the disc of stiff tulle,
strode across the stage with a straight back,
my shoulders didn’t crumble when they played the wrong music,
and it was my thunderous confidence, not my sloppy knees
or the tic-tac hue of my outfit
that won me a spot on the show.
 
But I’m not six years old anymore,
and when my thunder met tsunami,
I retreated into a wind.
No one tries to shut out thunder,
but everyone closes their door to the wind.
 
A wind without conviction,
a wind that listens rather than roars,
a wind taught to bend and turn and dodge and change course
at each obstacle
in order to
survive.
 
My truth no longer resides in unbent shoulders
or the straightness of a spine,
my truth no longer has the audacity to be heard
the way thunder roars
no matter who listens or hides away.
 
My truth is a constant whisper
like the summer breeze in the treetops,
I must strain my own ears to hear the wind
to remember what I have long known but forgotten,
to rediscover the treasures I dug away for safekeeping,
and at the beginning of each harvest season,
I remember with delight that clementine is my favorite fruit,
and I clutch the tic-tac hue in my hand,
and I see myself engulfed in the stiff, round tutu,
and I see some of the
thunder in myself again.

Melted and moulded

Like a phoenix the fire burnt me

With the winds my ash prevailed,

Mixed with water they painted their heads with my ash while going for a war,

The war which is supposed to be fought on the wax grounds,

Wax will flow from the waxed wounds,

And when the wax surrounds

I’ll grow from wax,

My roots will be wax,

Wax will be my trunk,

So let me be a flower of wax

Which cannot be burnt by fire,

Which cannot be drowned by water,

Which cannot be dried by air,

So they molded me like the earth,

And heated me by their sins,

And hence I’ll melt again,

To be moulded​ into a meteoroid and will fall on some other lifeless planet,

To be moulded again as Gods,

As Adam and Eve

As the Eden’s

As the guy Darwin who will put a drop of me into ocean to get solidified with the immense calmness and pressure of the Ocean’s bed,

Hence I’ll rise again as life, to be moulded and reshaped for millenniums into civilization,

To be melted again on some war grounds,

To be moulded into a phoenix of desires,

The whole universe will rise from my ash,

And will be moulded from my wax,

round and round.

Escaping the water, fire, air

Just to become earth for a war ground.

Obscurities

Prompt for Hour one-

i.

a mildew stained coat,
dyed by a clever Rangrez*
in a russet brown shade
burnt on the pyre of miseries
and abandonment

embers caged in an Urn neatly placed on the Oak fire mantle.

ii.

rosary bead ingrained with
thoughts, prayers, and frailties
clasped in a Fakir pocket; lamented about the cultural legacy

besieged in architecture and folklores

 

ashes of broken beads float on the Ghats of Banaras.

iii.

With November Witch, an unannounced envelope

arrives from the other side of fences

the cryptic scent of Guerlain’s Shalimar

lingers on to reach its purpose- a vintage voyage

to cross over borders, taboos and hatred.

 

Autumn winds smell like an incense-stick breathing Hope.

iv.

A shadow lost in the roots of an Old lavender tree

the pink skin of poplars; the roughened surface of its

birch; sad about its bony existence

a wooly grin buried in the

pirate box; as long as stalks of wheat

 

Earth coughed up a thick mist- Ruins of Mohenjo-Daro.

 

Copyrighted by Ruchi Chopra, 2017.

Rangrez* Dyer

Fakir* Religious ascetic

A Paradigm

Caroline to Henri

 

“Henri, I’m right here. Ici!”

She lounges on the sofa

Naked and bare

Waiting for the artist

But he doesn’t care

 

For what he sees

At that moment

At that time

Is not the beauty,

Simply a paradigm

 

He feels the warmth of sun

Shine through the shuttered window

And the whisps of wind

Dance through his hair

Nature’s blend

 

He arranges the flowers in the vase

On the blue table

“C’est moi!” Caroline shouts

Knocks over the vase

 

She dresses and walks out the door

Silence

Until

“Foutez-vous!”

 

Henri picks up the vase

Rearranges the flowers

Wipes the dirt from the

Blue table

Sits back down

And looks

 

Everything aligns perfectly

The garden flowers

The window

Blue table

Vase

The oranges

Yellow

Blue

Red

A simple paradigm

“One – The Sorrow of a God”

One morning, Zeus sat on his mountain throne
and pondered what would happen if men quit
coming to the oracle, if they stopped
fearing what they’d become if gods’ wrath came.
He paused as they talked less with him alone
and more with one another as they’d sit
in fields grown thick with plenty. His tears dropped
like stones and winter snow, much to his shame.
“But haven’t I brought everything you craved,”
his voice, like thunder, rolled across the land,
“and given it to you!?  Where are you now?
I should have kept you mute!  Kept you enslaved!”
A fat man in his field held up his hand,
“Is that a storm I hear? I’ll rest the plough.”

 

1. All is Sacred

From the four directions

comes the breath, the wind

of my ancestors.

As my feet

touch the ground

my eyes delight

in the many shades

of green.

Water

so precious, the very essence of all,

blesses my lips

with seeming abundance.

Each breath I draw

a knowing

I am here.

The sun brushes everything

in golden light.

In these moments

All is sacred.