The Poetry Marathon

Prompt 14: (Ersatz Emily) In the catalogue

they’re all holding,
or standing near,
a glass or decanter of wine,
and wearing the clothes
I fluff, fold and space
on a daily basis.

Oh, ETFs! (Evil-to-folds),
How much consternation you bring.
My Goodfellow associate glides by,
a silk quilt over her shoulder
like a freshly killed pelt.

Shunted to the front
to greet
and be ignored
by women
with TOO MUCH money
and not enough
ATTENTION SPAN,
I glower at the passersby
playing Poke-Go,
unaware of their slavery
to everything
except the pleasure
of being young.

Learning a New Language

It’s the closest you’ll ever get

To being a baby again

None of these words make sense

But you know they are supposed to

 

Start at the beginning

Re-learn the alphabet

You’ll say words wrong

No one will understand you

You will be frustrated

 

Throwing things no longer helps

And you wish you could remember things

Words

People

Accents

Letters

 

Молоко

우유

Milk

 

Finally you remember

These mean milk

It’s a start

Sorry To Be Such A Pest

I feel the need to apologize

to the bugs I kill in the house:

“Sorry, guy,” ruefully,

to the silverfish I squish,

his softness a smear

on my mint green wall.

 

Just days ago, I watched

a minute ant colony

industriously doom itself

in the trap by my desk,

amber flecks trundling

their poisonous lodes

through the tiniest crack.

Admittedly,

they crawled up my leg

each time I put down my foot,

so something had to be done.

 

Not to mention the handsome,

impossible bumble bees

nesting just over the door.

The landlord sprayed,

but I’m guilty by association.

This morning a straggler lay

on the step, triangle wings

like a downed jet,

his body–fuzz

and shiny blackness.

Roommate

For $2000 a month
I live in a closet
With shabby windows
the cold creeps in during the winters
And the heat assaults its way in on summer days
I’m either bundled up or lounging in underwear

The rat is the worst of it
Beady little eyes
Tiny little creepy teeth

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chitters while he devours my leftover sandwich.
“I can’t help it; you’re disgusting.”
“Heh. Look in the mirror lately, toots?!”

“I’m not kicking you out per se, but can you bathe regularly? You smell.”
The rat leans back picking at his teeth with one of my paperclips.
“Only if you buy me that lavender stuff.”
I roll my eyes. That lavender stuff is $50 a bottle.

He’s a proper NYC rat.
As big as a cat.
Moody and insolent.
Terrible breath.
Goes by the name of Chad.
WTF, right? Chad?

I could move out, but I’m used to this rat.
“The lavender stuff is in the bathroom,” I say.
He skitters across the floor.
Honestly isn’t the worst roommate I’ve ever had.
I was once married.

Hour Eleven: A Traveler’s Heart

Traveling down this road
No preconceived destination in mind
Just the wind to guide my soul
From the highest mountains to the lowest depths
From bustling cities so polluted it’s a wonder anyone survives
To laid back, off the beaten road towns where everyone knows your name

I want to see it all

Experience it all

Discover it all

Nothing holding me back
Making memories to last a lifetime

I shall not be mad.

Windy hilltop,

grizzled chest bared to the elements,

those about me concerned but ineffective

this is a war within myself  that I must win and lose

Win and lose in simultaneous tumbling tossing warring wrestling striving full energy, at full speed,, rocketing through existential space unable to put the buggy over to the edge of the speedway to replace a throw rotor or rotate the tires.

I am still me.  I touch me.  I am here.

I can trust and like and know myself, but there is a need for a course correction, right now, long before any reinforcements can cross the blood-brain barrier.

My inner fool throws me on my face to beat the rocky slope and squander energy crying  “It’s not fair it’s not fair….  not fair…not…”

My regal self knows I am fine,, just fine, better than fine, everybody should wish to be so fine, so wise, so clever, so full of understanding.  It is the rest of the world that needs adjustment, not me.  I am wonderful.  All-knowing, full of power and might and right.  Do not mess with me!

But I can read on the face of my loyal loving companion that there is something wrong,  I am bouncing back and forth between arrogance and despair, between growls of self-loathing and precious moments spent stroking my bold certainty.

I raise my once powerful arms to the heavens in entreaty, and from between the gaps in my remaining teeth is torn the tormented cry, as I war with myself,

Let me Not be  MAD! Not Mad!

I tear the remaining strands from my exposed head and howl, while at the same time I pet myself for comfort.

There there, there there.  It will pass, as it always does, and we will face the wreckage of life after the storm and build again.

If there is time.

 

 

Hour 14 – Twisted Nature

Weeds

---

Like weeds among the flowers in my yard,
you sneak inside my soul and block the sun.
I wish at times like this my heart was hard.

There was a time when loving you was fun
but now it feels like leeches at the lake;
the damage I’m not sure can be undone.

I should have known the tenderness was fake,
like pink flamingos at my Grandma’s house
or toothpaste icing on a birthday cake.

The spark of passion inside me was doused
and wisdom seems a lousy end reward
for watching one you thought would be your spouse

prove all your dreams were just a house of cards.
Like weeds among the flowers in my yard.

---

The Scablands

Through deserts and forest and grassy savannah
a landscape that transcends them all.
Glowing alight at night with neon orbs that call forth
all the the bats and the moths and birds of night
until a carnival of wonder circles overhead
Above the teeming lights of the Scablands.
Multicolored landscape as rich and vibrant,
yet hardened too,
where concrete slabs battle for the prestige of being the tallest
and highways and streets join
in a network of paths that connect all of us fiftieth cousins together.
In the Scablands
a hazy dusk hangs over us
from the steampunk machines
that thrive in their streets and in the Scablands
the plants are preserved in concret pots, rubber tires, bricks and porcelain toilets; anything to remind its occupants of what used to be. Little ghosts of their ancestors, teeming with light and with life, but yet so estranged from what it was truly like in the deserts and the forest and the grassy savannahs
and is now the Scablands

The Will of Nature

The Will of Nature

 

I’m lucky –

I get to explain

to angst ridden teens

how

trees grow on mountain sides.

And

most of the time

they buy it

but,

once in a while,

one of those kids

scoffs at the will

of

Nature.

 

Yeah,

this makes no sense

cuz

science is

irrefutable

and stuff

so

what is the problem?!

Sceptics would say

that you can’t get

dirt from a stone

cuz

it’s rock –

it’s hard…duh!?

 

I can always

count on

the kids in the back

cuz

they know this all too well:

all it takes

is a

little crack

so the light can get in.

The lichens break

rock

into dirt

so

the birds can “deliver”

(complete with air quotes)

the seeds.

 

So,

heathen teens,

that’s the story

of how

the smallest plants

crack the

toughest stone.

Now go and try it –

buy the principal a coffee.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Thirteen hell.

Lucky thirteen and nowhere near midnight
Nowhere still closer to daylight

It’s the time of night where one party ends
And another begins

Every song sounds better
And the pool is wetter

Some folks can hang and some folks can’t
Some keep drinking when they shan’t.

The night is far from over yet
And the morning brings retribution you can bet.

Thirteen is though unlucky,
And maybe it is, when the rhymes are sucky.

But I’ve got time this night
And many more after