The Poetry Marathon

Lost Shaker of Salt

When “Margaritaville”

comes on the radio,

 

I always think of

American tourists

in towns like Ixtapa

and Mazatlán,

 

whooping it up

at Senor Frog’s,

with buckets of iced Coronas

and peel-your-own shrimp.

 

Clusters of Parrotheads

in gaudy shirts, adorned

with tequila bottles

and palm trees,

 

swaying in their

rented beach hammocks,

 

signaling their waiter

for a double shot,

discussing stock portfolios

in jocular tones.

 

Six shots later,

they run towards the water,

pale legs flashing

in the winter sun.

 

Everyone has lost a lover,

everyone wants to

blame someone else,

 

and nobody knows

where they put that

goddamn saltshaker.

 

Perhaps they

left it at home,

with the rest

of their baggage.

 

Hour 7 image prompt –

A swing in yellow

A field behind

Always reminds me of summers past

And how the winter comes on so fast

The warm summer sun replaced by

Brisk autumn breezes

Soon replaced by frozen winter rain

 

prompt 7 Viator: surrender

surrender

I thought I knew love

when I was younger

in the days before life and death

wrote my life like a soap opera.

 

in all those deus ex machina moments

I thought I knew love locked in the mysteries of trust or blindness

where the universe cared about me enough

to keep me from knowing everything.

 

I tripped along heavy footed,

smashing little toes under crushing steps.

I thought I knew love

when hands reached out to steady me.

 

so many times I find

I know nothing

when I think I know everything

’til I thought I knew love.

 

these days I pray for lighter steps,

for hands less grasping and hungry,

for humility before the unknown to teach me

I thought I knew love.

(c) r. l. elke

Seven: The Illness

The Illness
Seven
A Viator

I’m so sick.
It’s strep, of course,
I mean, It’s usually strep
But it’s day one,
and I’m also participating in a marathon of poems
today.

The poems come harder.
I’m so sick,
So each line gets stranger
With each passing hour
But no stranger than strange
So I suppose that’s something I can write about.

Or, instead, could I write
Of the infections of the world?
I’m so sick
Of politicians and their anti-trans hatred.
“The Trans Debate” is
“The Jewish Question” is
“The Negro Problem” is
The newest set of code words
Chosen to dehumanize the people
They seek to oppress

Because oppression is the only way
They know how to maintain the power
They wield over others.
I’m so sick
of rich cis het white men
And their rich cis het white money
Polluting the only planet we have.

So though I fever,
Let this fever dream stand
For something more
Than just an infection.
I’m so sick
And no amount of medicine will cure
The spreading contagion
That is capitalism.

Spotlight (Hour 7)

Fixing my eyes on the price,
I take a deep breath.

Fighting my fears,
leaving the tears,
Making it clear,
I step in the spotlight.

Let them see,
My insecurities,
the way I bleed,
still don’t reveal,
my sorrows,
my pain,
things I retain,
I am here to gain,
efforts won’t go in vain.

Passing through it all,
I will keep standing tall.

My work is to wait,
I am yet to create,
boundaries will break,
Its never too late.

Sunflowers and Swing Prompt #7 (image)

The sunflower field was in full bloom.

A swing awaiting the Bride’s groom.

The photographer waited with care,

to await the memory she preserved there.

The Brides white dress billowed as she did fly

The Groom pushed her higher in the sky.

The photo stopped time that day.

Now every year they come and play.

Swing and Sunflowers makes them remember.

That special day in September.

Hour Seven: The Knitter’s Lament

The Knitter’s Lament

I followed the directions
with the promise of perfection,
rows counted and decreased,
and counted once again.

If I did what was written and if
I followed the directions,
It was guaranteed.
So I did.

Or I thought I did.
Increasing, decreasing,
I followed the directions.
I would do it all.

In the end it was its own.
Not what was promised, but lovely, still.
Somewhat like me, because that’s how
I followed the directions.

Heliotrophic

Swinging takes you up and down,

Under blue skies

As the sun goes round.

And tomorrow it starts

where it ended last day–

follow the sun;

don’t search for the gray.

Reach for the sky,

Turn toward the light,

and when day is done,

rest for the night,

The sun will return

with dawn’s golden start.

The dark can not stay

when there’s hope in your heart.

Wait for Me

Wait for me

at the top of the old stairs

where the creaks are the loudest

and splinters catch your nightgown

as you walk up to bed

 

By the old water pump

wait for me

to talk of fairies and nymphs

that play in the creek bed

known only to you

 

On the old back porch

where the old men waste time

wait for me

as the sunsets

and the men have gone to dinner

 

In the middle of the strawberry rows

when the heat begins grow

on your straight tan back

wait for me

to kiss your toes

 

Deep in the woods

at the edge of the property

cool even in the heat of the day

and dim enough to hide our secrets away

wait for me

Hour 6: Junie B Jones Justified

 

I hated Junie B Jones 

The outspoken 

frazzle haired 

Loud speaking star

Of my childhood chapter books 

Running through pages with her shoes untied 

 

Still, I read every single word

Drank the letters like water

And wondered why they boiled within me 

Had not yet learned hate to actually be jealousy to actually be a guide 

For the parts of ourselves we have not yet liberated 

 

I hope my child’s first word is No. 

so they get lots of practice 

That their lips learn the shape of a one word sentence 

And their mind the difference between meanness 

And the unapologetic 

 

I hope they let their laces run free 

As well as their frizzed follicles 

I wish them deep inhales 

To fill their lungs 

To be selfish with the air 

So they can shout all the longer 

Shout their desires 

And the laws of their own land 

 

A little one 

Who takes up space 

And a universe who sees 

And gives it to them