24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am not born
I am not dead
I am not what
The mind was fed
A sparkle hid
Neath dirt world
Bruises healed
As tongue uncurled
A thicker skin
A lighter mind
Venom sucked
While truth unblinds
A taste of sweet
Coats my lips
Surrender not
To misguide quips
Hide your colour
Hide your face
Unmasked you’ll be within my taste
I swallow all
You choose to hide
Hold it deep when you confide
It was the spring of the final year
When the tiredness in her limbs was unprecedented
She could see all the warnings, and though she could hear
Instructions were left unimplemented
It was the spring of the final year
When the best of the city was on display
And she was spent but moving over-confidently
The peacock in full swagger and sway
It was the spring of the final year
when all was a clandestine simmer
the way unavoidable as fate
The peacock took her love, took her over
Write a poem about technology. The details are entirely up to you.
I hear voices raised.
You are arguing with the kids again.
Intergenerational bullshit coming in.
Don’t you remember this age?
You like arguing with them.
Me not so much.
I remember being this age
So much to say.
Now I am not always sure I am right
I can see the other side.
I feel the hurt.
I don’t have the energy for this.
Why can’t you remember this age?
See their point.
You love to argue.
Perhaps feeling youth slipping away
You need to make your point before it is too late.
You thrive on it.
Words bursting in , brown thick mud
Slow , deadly swamp he was , all right
Signboards neglected , warnings disdain
Jumped on she right into brewing up muck
Gasped for air , thrashed up arms
Came no help , for she was
the rude little rebel
Shocked was the mob as she smiled on , bright girl ,
Mud brimmed her lips and she blurted out words :
“He is the swamp , oh yeah , and i am his mud
Drown , i should , for he craves me
And i am his breath
For neither should exist while the other survives”
Why do we call it warfare when war is anything but fair?
Why do we call it a funeral when it’s anything but fun?
Why do we get to ask these questions?
–
Because words.
Last night as I was ready to get some much needed sleep I got a private message from a drunken women who had ripped me off by having me be sorry for her and supportive and kind, then telling me she made it all up.
I was furious and somehow the rage turned into an accusation that she was doing this for her sexual stimulation, and I was right.
In my elevated mood the whole thing went out of control into cybersex and then she suddenly withdrew. All this in public, to a considerable bit of shame and blame.
She excused herself for being drunk. I was Bipolar aroused and showing poor judgment, but nobody understands things like that, so what’s the use.
And here she was again, playing me in her drunkenness, coy and needy. I wrote tender words that got her hot, then she stopped. Bummer extreme.
Two hours we toiled through the mess she had made of her life: an affair with her husband’s best friend. The lover died before she could leave her husband,, who was also sick, and the grief wound became infected.
A plot right out of a soap opera, but real, and I was hearing it for the second time, and making some pretty shrewd guesses about why she was drinking to dull the pain of guilt and grief. And anger at her husband for NOT TALKING ABOUT IT DAMN IT! and not going to the doctor with his serious symptoms, as though he wanted to die, and, as I was exhausted, she shared that she wanted to die, so I was stuck longer.
She had kept drinking, so she hadn’t sobered up and wasn’t more intellectually clear, but much more emotionally clear. A huge mess and i did not want to try to unpack it instead of checking on the marathon site.
Two hours invested in a sloppy drunk, and i was tender and supportive, because I am a good boy.
She lost her son She lost her mind
She lost everything She lost everyone
She roams in the rain She roams all around
Then one early day she has been gone… gone
Then her son came came looking for her
In his hands is a gift A beautiful fur
He will put it around his mom’s lovely neck
Who’s been cheerful and pretty the last time he checked
He left and he looked for the beautiful woman
She came and she saw her beautiful son
Then both cried and laughed and ran in the rain
Never will they leave each other again.
She stared so hard at the phone number hoping
as if, by sheer will,
the numbers would
connect themselves
and he would
answer and know her voice.
Her fingers would not dial,
and her
heart would not slow down so
he would never know
that in her dream last night he kissed the top of her head
and filled her with lightening that she felt when she awoke.
(c) R. L. Elke 2016
I’m one of the lucky ones.
I’ve never been assaulted.
I’ve never been molested.
I’ve never been stalked.
I’ve never been raped.
But:
I have tried changing how I walk so my hips don’t sway.
(Because that would be provocative.)
I have been propositioned in a store late at night by a man old enough to be my father.
(Because I was wearing a one-piece bathing suit with shorts over it.)
I have hidden in the staff room to avoid male patrons who make a beeline for my desk.
(Because they can’t take a hint and don’t go away and I can’t say anything because customer service.)
I have asked my brother to not say he “raped” an opponent in video game matches.
(Because I know at least three women who have been raped and the joke isn’t funny.)
I have cut men out of my life for betting too close to comfort and was chastised for blowing it out of proportion.
(Because apparently I can’t accurately assess my own sense of safety.)
I have faced a man twice my age trying to lure me away from my friends at a convention, a place I was supposed to be safe.
(Because I wore something pretty and was too polite to say “No, I’m not comfortable with this.”)
I have avoided being friendly with men.
(Because I don’t want them to think that I’m being flirtatious.)
*
I’ve never been assaulted.
I’ve never been molested.
I’ve never been stalked.
I’ve never been raped.
But:
Statistically, I have a 1 in 5 chance of being raped
and a 1 in 20 chance of facing sexual violence in some fashion during my lifetime.
I don’t like those odds.
Do you?
(And remember: I’m one of the lucky ones.)