The Poetry Marathon

What’s in a Name

We use God’s name

Like a 4 lettered word

Whether He is real to you

It still sounds absurd

To call on a God

Just joking around

It gets His attention

He hears every sound

If you are an Agnostic

Or believers in the Christ

Believe in an afterlife

Or whatever your tryst

To call on a God

What ere your belief

Should be for your comfort

Your solace, relief

When “oh my God”

Is used ere so lightly

It so goes against

A belief I hold tightly

That whatever you feel

About “God” and His “name”

Whoever your God

It still is the same

So let’s not tarnish

Our own Deity

By using His name

Unnecessarily

The hideous clock

Inspiration meted out by the minute

the minutes counting down for this hour.

Take this bus or the next one?

Fly this metaphor to home or save and savor it?

 

Kline graue Katze (Little Grey Cat)

Kline graue Katze

(Little Grey Cat)

 

“Hast du angst?” (Are you afraid?)

I asked the motherly

grey cat,

(if cats can be motherly)

perched precariously atop

the stall post in front of me

while I mucked out

the horse’s stall

after school

of a dark,

Alberta-cold,

February eve.

 

Grey Kitty,

(because I was that original)

“mawed” her answers

back in

cat,

rather that German,

but

I could swear

I heard her say,

“nein.”(no)

 

I had to perfect

my German because

I was going there

on exchange in the spring

and

I was terrified

to be misunderstood

and

anxious that

I would be

ganz allein (all alone)

and have nothing to say.

 

That motherly

grey cat,

perched precariously

cold day in

and

dark day out,

and listened patiently to

my inane, adolescent chatter

about

meine tag in die Schule. (my day at school)

But

all of that practice

with my

long suffering cat

in the end

did little to

prepare me for

the solitude

and separation

cast in the shadow of

a language barrier.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

Frozen Star Skies

I lost myself
Within your eyes
Neath silent moon
Frozen star skies
The soul striped
Piece by piece
To find the woman
Hid underneath
Changing colour
Locked in place
Holds me deep
My mind erased
Force the lip
Open speak
Tongue and word
That don’t quite meet
Unconscious brings
Conscious bold
The mind will find
What heaven told
Breath’s last gasp
Is your name
Delicate thread on windowpane
Filter dream
Filter night
Darkness bound
Forbid it’s fight
Skin that burns
Like morning star
Blazen truth
And left unmarred

Hour seven

Do I want you?

Do I want you?

 

Yes, of course I fucking want you.

I want you like I want a buttered lobster tail.

I want you like I want a 32-ounce Angus steak

and Chocolate Decadence.

 

I want you like I want a pack of Vanilla Sweet Dream cigarettes.

I want you like I want five shots of Cuervo Gold

three Rolling Rocks

six hits of dope

and 8 milligrams of dilaudid.

 

I want you with every needy, gnawing, sucking orifice of my damaged soul.

I want you to lay me open like a knife.

I want you wrapped around me like a rope.

I want you deep inside me like a bullet.

 

Do I want you? Do I Want You?

 

Yes.

 

But I have learned, repeatedly,

that the pain of wanting pales

against the hell of having that which I want.

#PoemNo7 Angst – j.r.m© 2016

Dance Away from Angst

in a hat created from a fuschia scarf

with three butterflies perched

where there was no space,

I samba too rapidly to the finale.

a half dozen bracelets

encircle my arms,

my heels are high enough

to touch euphoria.

each step makes me an icon.

each hat makes me immortal.

 

 

Chosen

chosen

to be the one

to bring change

to break the chains

to right the wrongs

create rites of passage

to the darkness

To remove what does not belong

to build what has been torn down

to fix what is broken

and claim what has been taken

lost

destroyed

desecrated

to protect, lead and guide

i am the truth, the way and the light made from the darkness

I am that I am

behold me and know that

i am here

 

 

 

 

 

VI. My Unchangeable Past

I would like to say I shudder
When I look at the past,
but I don’t.

I did the best I could
With what I had,
so too bad

If I wasn’t good enough.
Maybe you weren’t
good enough, either.

After my grandmother died,
I spent two years
trying to get back to her.

In her presence,
I had no past,
I had no sorrow.

Only with her
Was I ever
good enough.

Poem 7- A Binge Eaters Universe

This is something I have struggled with and continue to struggle with, but am slowly coming to terms with. The poem reflects my attempt to add some humor to my situation.

 

I walk into the sweet shop

And see all my old friends

Cakes, chips, instant ramen pots

On aisles at every end

 

Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!

They all seem to scream

What am I doing? Why am I here?

I’d promised myself I would eat clean

I’d promised myself I would eat clean

The day before, and two days prior

How else will I ever get lean?

Yet my goals sink in the mire

Of voices, nasty voices, voices of my friends

 

I’m sweet and crunchy, says the cookie to me

We’re not even fried say the kettle chips

I’m three scoops a dollar today, says the tub of ice cream

How are you still thinking about this?

 

How am I still thinking about this?

Why am I still thinking about this?

Am I even thinking about this?

No.

I am thinking about…..

 

That paper that needs to be fleshed out

The midterm results that will soon be out

My laundry’s not done, summer’s coming up

And I still do not have a summer job….

 

An hour later, with an aching stomach

Heaving, I scale eight flights of steps

Disappointed, angry, cursing my luck

Why can’t I control myself?

 

I make goals, break goals

So many goals, so many rules

And I tire myself, my mind, my soul

Till I feel in control.

In “control”.

 

Is any life crisis, let alone mine worth this angst?

I don’t know, and am too tired to care

Any dinner for you? I say no thanks

Food now seems like a nightmare

 

When will I stop? How do I stop?

When will this obsessive cycle end?

But the next day, I am back at the same shop

Hearing the voices of old friends