Desert Fire
I have lit the fire
can you see me through the stars?
I see you in my minds eye
You’re humanoid form
With a side of martian tentacles
I have lit the fire
Tell me you see me
Prompt 9: preservation
preservation
hands stained with beet juice
reminds me of Granny,
learning at her elbow
how to pickle all those veggies needed for winter
from the days she learned from her granny
when her father would bring elk to the house
to feed the family,
guts in buckets for the wild ones,
jacket smelling of smoke from roll-your-owns,
hiding the smell of blood with cinnamon
baking with apples.
these days,
the ruddy dye brings a tremor to my heart
to recall her and how much I miss her.
(c) r. l. elke
Fine Weather
Leaving morning dew.
Sun-kissed of earthen smells.
Fresh warmth.
Bare feet and relaxed.
Last Gasp (hour 9)
Butterflies soar to heights we can dream of
spreading their wings in flights of fancy
coloring their surroundings in rainbows
of blues, greens, yellows, oranges and black.
But when it’s burn-your-feet-through-the-sandals hot
where the pavement dares you to fry an egg–
a heat so intense you feel your aorta pumping
oxygenated blood through your veins, what happens
to the butterflies? Can they chance a landing on your arm?
Rivers of steamy sweat pour down your head
streaking what’s left of your carefully made up face,
mascara drips down your eyes blackening them
making you look like the tiger-striped butterfly in flight.
The heat rains down upon your hair, making it dank,
strand sticks to strand, your neck wet from it all.
If this is climate change, we are damned.
I won’t survive global warming: the arctic melts,
ocean waters rise, glaciers calve at speeds unknown;
polar bears drown on ice floes unconnected to land,
penguins are forced to abandon families–no place
to rest or return with food.
How much longer will our earth survive when so many
deny climate change? Do we need more frequent floods,
hurricanes, cyclones, earthquakes tornadoes to prove it?
I fear the mounting conflagration will destroy all
and man is to blame.
Poem 9, Happiness
She ate cinnamon on her toast like every morning.
Her grandma had her tea and her arm had a tremor as she poured it.
Their dog licked her elbow and the girl gave him a small piece.
Her grandma glared disapprovingly.
She hurriedly finished and left.
The sun is high in the sky, brightening the beautiful bayou.
Her grandma yelled out the door to take her jacket,
but she didn’t hear.
Running through the woods with her dog at her heels,
she sings and laughs as he picks up a stick to bring along.
The treehouse her father built her is up ahead.
Shhh, she tells her dog. They walk quietly up the ladder and sit near
the window.
Elk and deer are grazing, so unaware of their beauty.
She sighs in happiness.
They stay until sunset and return home, shivering in the cool wind.
Later, her grandma puts a bucket next to her bed,
giving her a knowing look.
Before the sun rises, the girl is coughing so hard, her dinner comes up.
Her dog’s ears flatten with worry.
She can hear her father’s car enter the carport and the lightbulb in the hallway
flashes on.
He has come home to her!
With gifts, she hopes.
He comes to tuck her in as he always does and kisses her temple.
Tomorrow. He pokes her nose, anticipating her question.
She is still smiling after she falls asleep.
Tomorrow.
Prompt 9 – Bayou Dreams
Image Courtesy of Pixabay
Beneath a bayou’s tranquil, silent sway,
A jacketed elk at the break of day,
Tremors of nature in the water’s flow,
Where cinnamon sunsets cast their amber glow.
By the carport’s shade where the lightbulbs gleam,
An elk and a bucket, a tranquil dream,
Beside the bayou, under the moon’s embrace,
With an elbow’s touch and a gentle grace.
Antoinette LeRoux © 2023
Ain’t Easy
Living in the bayou ain’t easy
I felt a thundering tremor
The lightbulb suddenly blew out
It was raining buckets
I was thrown off balance
Bangin’ my elbow
Against the carport
Living in the bayou ain’t easy
~Rebeli
Funeral Singers prompt hour 8
Funeral Singers hour 8
credit: Funeral Singers by Sylvan Esso all italic lines are credited to the song
under starry skies I hold the fire in my hand
and stretch to the sky
all my friends are funeral singers
the weight of love is a warm blanket
safe around me, protection from the cold
all my friends are half-gone birds
even the stars will burn out eventually
long before we know they’re gone
all my friends are keeping time
I sing to starry skies about my past
and hopes for the future
words lost in the spitting fire
as a book is aching for the tree
Prompt 9: Goodbyes
You gave me your jacket,
with a tremor in your hand.
We both knew today was the last time
We will see each other.
There was a lightbulb moment,
when I knew it was time to move on.
Like cinnamon,
sweet at first, but bitter when too much.
A once rushing ocean,
had become a bayou.
Life in Flight
Two butterflies, together in flight –
Are they male?
Are they patrolling for females
for mating?
Are they female?
Are they mothers carrying eggs
to deposit on the right plants?
Is it a male and a female
in the mating dance of life?
Mother Nature
will answer my questions in time.