Inarticulate
You want to know where I am
I am where I said I would be.
I am right here. Writing. Quiet.
Sacred Writing (prompt 20)
they say to make it sacred
that a habit you feel connected to
will hold more meaning that way
I’ve tried whispering prayer into morning coffee
expressing gratitude between each vitamin I take
meditating on my morning walks
but nothing feels like church
outside of pages filled each weekday
a muscle I find pleasure in exercising
pouring words from some ethereal place
given room to live in tangible form
take up space outside of me
Hour 17
Hour 17
Sometimes I wonder if tattoos can be love notes
Notes for myself to see and smile at
Each pass of ink a new I love you
And if they are love notes
Can anyone read them
Or just me
Am I the only one hearing my skin whisperÂ
The ink giving it voice
Letting it say I love you
Long gone
LONG GONE
Long gone are the days
Us holding a heartfelt thank
Long gone are the moments
Innocent touch hugging our bodies
Long gone are the minutes
Our breaths blended in an instant
Long gone are the adventures
Excitement changed into shame
Long gone are the feeling of love and unity
All it’s left is an empty space
Prompt 20
Wait to begin until all three are
in the kitchen,
tails up. Pick up the triangle of bowls and
place them on the counter as though
they were one single unit.
Attempt to tear open the packet
and fail — even though the tabs at the top
would suggest otherwise. Instead,
first try cutting
it open with a knife.
It won’t work.
Only then will it be permissible to reach in the drawer
for the scissors.
The scissors will be old and
won’t easily cut.
Find the sweet spot,
that small area where the blades
still come together as sharply as they did
when they were new, and cut off
the top of the faux aluminum pouch.
Squeeze just enough
into each bowl so that it
divides up perfectly in thirds.
Say, “Here you are, ladies” and
set the little troika back on the floor.
All mewing will abruptly
stop as they eat, and
in the silence that follows,
listen for the quiet slap-slap of their tongues as
they hit the glass.
Only then may is it possible to
walk away. Ritual completed.
UnBrOkEn (Hour Eight, A Non-traditional Minute Poem)
UnBrOkEn
Too blind to see, too deaf to hear
A four-eyed freak
with Bluetooth ears
But wait, there’s more…
Adorned with spots from head to toe
and facial hair
so bright it glows
for all to see…
Encumbered by ADHD,
high A1C,
and wonky knee…
Yep, that be me!
(A traditional minute poem is made up of 60 total syllables divided among three stanzas of four lines each, with the syllabic count of 8/4/4/4. Traditional minute poems are written in iambic pentameter following a rhyme scheme of aabb, ccdd, eeff. To save myself the struggle, I have eliminated these last two requirements, resulting in the non-traditional minute format displayed here.)
Hour Twenty: Sacred Rites
Never fond of uniformity and routine —
Even the rites I keep
Are not routine —
My only rituals are sacred ones:
The weekly journey to sanctuary
Never the same way
Never the same mode
Never the same purpose
Except keeping the faith
And assuring justice is served
Washed in the Spirit,
the Name, and
the divine Presence
My body clock tuned to 3:30
without an alarm
for the ritual of
Getting up to pee and drink water
Grabbing my laptop
To keep faith with my golden time
My writing time
Bathed in divine enlightenment
Awashed in words
Before the holy sunrise
Haunted Barn hour 20
Haunted Barn
A monkey, a bunny, and a flamingo
meet in a barn, where there are no horses
or cows, no pigs or chickens, not a single stick
of straw; they meet a purple-hair woman there
who takes them on a journey through walls
and halls, up hills and down in basements,
leads them into attics and above ocean waves,
a poetic roller coaster of hauntings that do not
rest in peace.
A few ghosts wail, taverns and coffee shops
open and close like shutters in a windstorm;
cadavers awaken and stroll Long Island streets
as though they hadn’t died over a century ago.
Barn boards moan beneath their feet, a door creaks
in rusty protest; the monkey oils away the fear.
A mirror on the wall clouds over, a face appears
screaming soundless; the bunny rubs long ears
across the glass and the terrified woman disappears
in a cloud of smoke. When a kite gets caught
the fan at the roof of the barn and it stutters to a halt,
the flamingo flies up, releases the bright purple kite,
and the fan resumes spinning.
The purple-haired woman claps at each feat
of mastery, delights in relieving fright, the barn
haunted no more. The monkey bows, the bunny
dances, and the flamingo flaps fuchsia wings.
They hug, the purple-haired woman arranging
their next poetic exorcism, perhaps on a street
where you live.
~ J R Turek Hour 20
The Collar
A sign of ownership
a seal of control
A marking of surrender
a circlet of love
A way to subdue
a stairway to release
An attribute of love
a mark of consent
An attribute to harmony
a lifting of spirit
A giving of self
an acceptance of one
“Spiritual Potpourri “
Hour Twenty: Prompt: A Daily Ritual
Centering myself via prayer, reading, meditation in different religious disciplines every day works well for me. Getting spiritually sound takes work people!
I need all the help I can get.
I vary the time of day, just so long as by each midnight my compliment of centering prayers/reading/mindfulness are completed.
I need all the help I can get.
When literature is available, there is definitely some I reject even though I need all of the help I can get.
For some reason, people come to me to unload, and I listen, usually well!
I have something they’re looking for, I guess.
I leave something for myself in the reservoir of kindness I obtain from my daily spiritual potpourri.
Centering is never wasted or abused. I have no formula, and no genie at my behest. I express ungreedily and simply that what I need is help, and help arrives. DMW