Fire
FIRE
Fearless Angel walked with me
In outdated with joyful whispers
Resting her
Enormous wings
She hugged my worries away
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