The Poetry Marathon

Just a Man with a Sign

I live in a dark and lonely world
One so hard to understand
I have no family, no home, no friends
Nothing but a cardboard sign to call my own
It hasn’t always been this way
I was once a CEO
But the economy bust did hit me hard
So on this curb I sit

I didn’t plan my life this way
But, then again, who does
As a CEO, I passed here and never gave a cent
So, I guess, why should I ask your help
It’s different with the shoe on my foot
From loafers to beaten, broken tennis shoes
But before you judge, I know it happen to anyone
Remember…. you could be next

I – like the men I passed
Ask you for your help
I’ve learned from mistakes
And promise, I will pay it forward
For through it all, I still believe
Goodwill in men still exists
But, if you pass me by, I’ll understand
I’ll never wish you harm

I’ll keep on standing with my sign
Accepting my current fate
While praying that my life will change
Before it is too late
I sit here in the elements, vulnerable and exposed
As you swiftly pass me by
I’ll pray for you, while I chat with myself
Not knowing my history you’ll never know why

Not Me

Never by me
but all by Society
Every problem in my life they cause because of my color
because they feel they have power
No trust in this system
living in fear
hour by the hour
My future is lost
bullying
I pay the cost
My feelings get hurt
road rage by looks
fighting my rights
with a left hook
Now I’m in jail
for protecting my rights
Paying a cost
for other people’s plights
I don’t have a choice
as I go through this life
Because they say in America
that we have rights
What hope do I have
for a future so good
When all this world provides
is life misunderstood

Coming Into My Own

I know it is time
I am ready to fly
Spirit is supporting me
I have only to try

It all goes my way
It’s as simple as that
With God as my partner
There’s no looking back

I go where I’m called
And offer my gifts
Speaking from my soul
My intention to uplift

The good of God
In Its ever giving glory
Gives me the words
And writes my story

In joy I claim my bounty
With ease it comes to be
There’s always enough
Including plenty for me

And so it is written
And so shall it be.

Poem 12

My First and Second love fight

 

Love fights,
As they bites.
Overriding each other priorities,
They decide..
To let the owner satisfies,
Whom she want to be her first and second love..
Her Passion(poetry) or her Sleep.
Sleep said, she is used to of me.
She can’t live without nine hours sleep.
Poetry said, my one hour is enough for her to feel relaxed.
She is used to of me too.
Sleep says she won’t sacrifice me ever for you,
Poetry said, let the time shows this to you.
Both fights, in my mind.
I somehow struggling, made them understand.
Nobody is first or last,
You both are my part.
One is my need, other is my deed.
Both are my seed.
sleep for my body, passion for my mind.
So stop making each other behind.

 

City Sidewalk

I saw him walking years ago, in the city with his dog in tow.

where were they going, where had they been?

He was pushing a grocery buggy so slow,

With all their belongings within.

 

Where would they rest, where would they sleep?

Would they even get anything to eat?

The sun would soon slip away as night began to creep.

I’m not even sure he had shoes on his feet.

 

I can’t imagine how empty he must have felt inside,

Or how he came to be at this point in his life.

Silently I asked God in prayer,

To be with this man and his dog out there!

 

Rita Joe – language warning/content warning

This piece contains graphic language.  Please know, spirits of my sisters who have lived or live this life that I mean this only as a form of respect and that I burn tobacco to pray that you will be free one day.  Spirits of my indigenous sisters, who have been taken by predators in this country and other countries, blessed be you and rest.

 

Rita Joe

(In honour of George Ryga’s character from the play The Ecstasy of Rita Joe)

 

Never shoulda told ‘em I heard voices – they said it was my head but – I know it is the spirit of my ancestors and they are angry with my –

 

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKIN’ AT?

I AIN’T NO WHORE            !

YOU COULDN’T FUCKING AFORD ME, BITCH!

 

-angry with my habits…I tried, you know, to quit the booze and the dope but it helps out here –

 

KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS

OFF MY SHIT!

 

-at night when I am trying to stay awake cuz if you sleep here, you’re fucked!

 

We are being hunted out here, I’m telling you, I had lots of friends go missing or die cuz no one gives a fuck about drunk Indians anymore cuz they got our land all ready.

 

FUCKING COPS

DON’T CARE IF WE

O.D.!

 

But, you know, I never wanted to be here – I wasn’t born to snort pills and suck cock –

I had dreams once, too.  No one says they wanna be a crank head when they grow up or take punches from rich men –

 

PICK A FUCKING COLOUR,

ANY FUCKING COLOUR.

 

They all want to take from me what they get at home for free – with a side of …

 

Tried to tell the cops about my dad

my uncle

my pimp

but we don’t count out here – our cunts don’t count cuz we get high and we drink and we fuck for money.

 

I STILL FUCKING MATTER!

WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN’ AT?!

 

Best friend went to the pig farm, eh? – that Picton farm – I know it.  Someone said they found her DNA.  That’s how you know they got you – the DNA.

 

Coulda been me, eh?  Coulda been any of us here cuz the fucking cops don’t care that the voices in my head is my great-grandmother telling me to watch out for uniforms –

cops

and

clerks

and

priests.

 

So, anyways, thanks for the money, and not tellin’ me how to spend it cuz the nights are long here and life is short here for us Indian bitches on the Downtown East Side.

 

KEEP WALKIN’, BITCH!

THIS AIN’T NO FUCKIN’ CIRCUS!

 

One day, I fucking tell you, one day I’ll get outta here and go home – to the prairies and look to the big skies again – get away from these fucking mountains that hold me in…like jail…I fuckin’ hate jail…

 

I’m goin’ home one day cuz that’s what I dream about when I hear great-grandma’s voice.

 

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

I’ve hit a wall

I’ve hit a wall. What type of wall?

wall of bricks? wall of sticks?

wall of “no more writing tricks”

wall of noise? wall of boys?

wall my empty mind employs

wall of wait, high and straight

wall of let’s procrastinate.

Migrane beast

A beast lives inside my head
moves all around.
Intensely, pulsating sometimes
throbbing.

Play hide and seek with me and slips off of me when i try to capture it from its root.

when I focus to undetstand, it dissappears.

I slowly now understand its many disguises so I simply
watch and see its true form.

It no longer hold its shape and illusions of being real and solid.

Soon it dissappears,disintegrate
leaving just a soft trail
like a leftover tail.

Hour Eleven: Beach Bum

Beach Bum

 

They call me a bum.

Don’t talk to the dirty bum, honey, he’ll never

leave us alone

 

I wake before the sun, shake the sand out of my blankets

roll them up and tie them to my bike

I stretch my arms to the shivering stars

Breathe in the salty air

Ride to the public sand shower and rinse my face and hands

Heading back to the beach, I stop at the community garden

where tomatoes and peppers are plentiful now

pick a few each, leaving the rest for late risers

I bait a hook with a cricket from the garden

Cast out, sit watching my line bob in the

ancient ocean rhythm

Once a Soldier (Hour Eleven)

I was once a soldier,

Disciplined and honorable.

But nothing prepared anyone for Viet Nam.

Now I stand all night, all day

On Massachusetts Avenue

Growling and hissing unintelligibly

At college students who think of me

As a frightening curiosity

As they make their way to coffee shops

And Urban Outfitters.

They cross the street to avoid me.

And I am trapped behind these eyes,

Seeing through the lenses of a cracked and twisted mind.

I am a used up resource for the War Machine,

And the strangest thing these eighteen-year-olds have ever seen.