The Witching Hour

There’s a solemn hymn that’s heard

Amongst spirits and demons that hear

The word and chants ciphered

In the hours that they revere

 

The Witching Hour

An active time that’s said to be:

A time when spirits are found to scour

And demons play in mockery

 

Playful motions and words conveyed

Amongst the dead who still are?

Though— in times here hoorayed

For being skilled in the art of war—

 

The veil loosened

Time— we bind

Senses heightened

Worlds intertwined

 

Knowledge bound

To a course we know—

Where tomorrow’s found

Before we even go—

 

For what IS known

Has already been—

The Witching Hour has now shown

Revelations of a removed foreskin

 

 

 

Lilith

How do you want to be remembered,
to be seen, to be loved?
Did it hurt when Adam
demeaned you? Did he matter?
Did you love him?

Did he hurt you?

Did you try to save meek Eve?
Did you watch him dig his teeth
into the pomegranate, spitting out
the bitter flesh at her feet, garnet
oozing down his chin? Did he
sink his teeth into you? Into her?

Did you stay and watch him
fling seeds at her, scream
that she made him do it?
That everything was her fault?
Did you beg again, then, for her
to leave him to be safe with you?

Did you rage against the original
abuser and the monster he prized?

Did he hurt you?
Are you safe?

Hour Eighteen, Text Prompt

Focus

Silence is never silent,
as anyone new to meditation can attest.
When forced to center within,
to just be still, and listen,
each sound magnifies,
becomes central,
distorts the desired calm
and hijacks my mind.

The nasal whine of a buzzing mosquito
is suddenly a freight train,
air sucked through a furnace intake
is surf pounding on rocks to a drowner.

I try to focus,
pay attention to the moment,
but a guitar riff from a neighbor’s radio
and veeeewpewpewpew, I’m gone.

 

No one

No one in this house is awake.
No one writing poetry.
No one writing.
No one awake in bed.
No one begging for sleep.

Am I begging?
Am I ready to cave, to quit?
Am I ready to flip the switch
down, lay in darkness,
set an alarm?

No one is setting an alarm.

Should I keep writing?
No one is writing.

Should I stretch?
No one is stretching.

Why don’t I care enough?
Am I still competitive?
Am I still that overachieving
child, distraught over less-than-perfect?
Am I still afraid of not being the best?

No one is afraid of not being the best.

No one is readjusting their glasses.
No one is listening for the neighbor’s
return on his Yamaha.
No one is watching Khooba
twitch as he dreams.

Why am I?

They can’t all be winners.

Fibula

I never gave my bones
much thought when I had form,
flesh. A frame. Inconsequential.
When we died, we could join
our ancestors, our parents,
back and back and back.
I do not remember how I died.
I know that I did. I was mourned,
placed in deference to cross
and return. I watched others,
sisters, sink and rise. I do not know
what I am.

I was not my body. I was not
simply human. Are any of us?
I felt, still feel, the pull Beyond.
I cannot tell where or in which
direction. I stay. I remain.

I loved and was loved
by scavengers, dutifully, gratefully,
playing their part. I was not
flesh. Some scattered me,
my bones, and I did not follow.
I have not felt pain. I was not bone.

Water rose, and I saw the sun
through surface ripples. Eons.
Beautiful.

Two bones left— tibia and fibula.
They are not me. I do not believe.

The sand and silt cover them,
and I hold my watch. Dust.
Desiccation. Crystalline sharp
taste of salt.

Tibia is dust destined, dust borne,
dust released. Grateful.
I am not tibia.

Fibula hardens, stubborn. Like me?
All that is left of my body.
Here I remain.

The dead are tourists passing
through, nodding as they watch
and see and whisper and leave.
I am alone.

Fibula browns, imitates a brother,
mineral. Am I Fibula?
I remain.

Untitled-Hour 16

There is a silent truth that fully obeys the plausibility of nothing.

Between my fingers, i see one of them growing flabby upper arms and a bloated face

While the other one i try to look for in the attic of memory

There is a serpentine guilt that i allowed for no images of the other to be impressed.

Beyond the channels of heredity, i am more of the other, quaintly forgiving, never forgetting

That there was a child who hid under the shadows of the other, refusing the labours of distanced love

And that remains unperturbed still.

Muted

Muted

Finally, the pandemic is loosening its grip
on our lock-downed lives, stores and offices
opening, events dormant for nearly two years
reappear, though it is a slow process.

Zoom hit its peak, now people prefer
in-person to virtual. Muted becomes a joke played
and replayed to sniggers and chuckles.
Variations of You’re Muted and Unmute Yourself
celebrate a closing of the covid cocoon we’ve
been living in.

But for me, I want to start a new trend.
Mute Yourself every time someone complains
about not needing to wear a mask. Enough of
the masks already, accept that we are moving
forward with or without you.

And for those conspiracy theory spreaders,
convinced that the government is injecting
us with drones to control our minds, please
mute yourself.

And while we’re at it, your constant complaints
about your little aches and pains are giant aches
to our ears. Get over it, take a pill and please
mute yourself.

Whining about the weather will not change it.
It’s cold, hot, often somewhere in between.
If you haven’t adjusted by now, do it.
In the interim, please mute yourself.

Yes, I like this new trend. Polite, not
your/my typical shut up already, with or
without the addition of two key words.
Lastly, think about things that cause you
annoyance, make you want to grumble,
groan, moan, squeak, squeal, or screech,
please refrain; instead, mute yourself.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 18

Hour 18 – Whitewashed

Take me to a whitewashed house

with pristine floors and

spotless sheets that hold

no ancient maggi stains

spilled on horror movie nights

where the mattress has never bore witness

to our pillow forts and fist fights.

Take me to a house where

the walls don’t echo

hushed giggles and ghosts

of conversations that

carried on through the night

where the doors have no chips

from indoor cricket and wrestling matches.

I can picture the kitchen too

gleaming white marble

a fancy counter top

a far cry from the dull, grey slabs

that were audience to mom’s hums.

I need a shower that has never

mocked my renditions of

Backstreet Boys or given me

the privilege of privacy

that was hard to come by.

Oh! take me to a house

where the light enters unencumbered

by shadows of the past for

they belong only in my old home

that has withered away

with my memories within.

 

Listen

“Just be still, and listen”…

Only love brings peace

Patience helps you grow

Open your ears

Close your mouth

Listen one another

Understand

And…

Respect!

@Maritza – Hour Eighteen