24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hour 12 Prompt 12
The Trees
Trees in front of our house died last year.
Dead leaves meant sadness on the block.
Birds shunned our trees all summer.
We watered them in vain.
We fertilized them,
too, with, rich, foul
smelling feed
but no
good.
“just be still and listen”
was taught to me by my elders
to connect to the lines of spirit
between all beings
made more loving for the teachings
vibrating in those golden threads
like rhizomes between plants
like prayers in the air.
they said you can’t hear the answers
if you’re always asking for them.
so I try to sit and listen,
so still I won’t scare the voices away.
r. l. elke
For the divine power of kings
One and many— (decisions) fates
For the binding of will— brings
The desired future—that it creates
For where manipulation is found
Of the powers that are
Necessity itself can be bound
To compensate from afar
For one decision or many we ask
One— congealed to decide
For its with certainty, fates own task
That the creator itself (cause) may hide
A new beginning,
a soft night lulls us here, now,
and there is just us.
How envious I am of my dog
Sprawling like a human
Across my couch,
Darting like an arrow
Straight into the house
Nearly knocking me down as
He races past me,
Looking at me innocently with
His tongue lolling
Off to the side.
He groans like an old man
Every time he lays down-
A loud “Hrrumph” and a thud
And off to dreamland he goes.
He insists on sleeping next to me
At the head of my bed,
Absconding with my pile of pillows
I just positioned for myself.
He has no problem just sitting there
As I yank with all my strength
The small corner of blanket
When he decided to nap.
He just looks at me as though
My attempts to dislodge it are
futile and entirely amusing
While he gives me that look with his eyes.
He knows exactly which buttons to press
And talks back worse than
My ten-year-old son
After an all-night Minecraft binge.
The shit likes to run and won’t miss
The opportunity to escape
And prance around the neighborhood
And taunt me while I stand in the street
in my pajamas
no makeup
no shoes
hair a mess
with my hands planted firmly
upon my plushy hips while
Holding an empty leash,
But how I would miss the company
The warm, fuzzy cuddles
The kisses on my chin
The way he’d curl up and find
A place next to me
Even if he had to shrink himself
and bend space and time to fit.
My dearest Poet, you deserve a spot
In this marathon
For the honor of being your best friend
And the greatest most loyal one
That I could have ever had-
You truly are a blessing
and live up to your rightful name.
listen, just be still
waters reflect energy
teach lessons of calm
take a deeper breath
like the gut punch never came
never be the sam
There is a desire sometimes that one will travel back in time to negate. The blackberry bushes being manicured. The mowing of the lawn killing the wild flowers. The moment of conception. A meteorite hitting this earth. A word spilling out. Deferring the continuous future into an uncertainty, this desire owns nothing and is not indebted to anything. Besides a possibility of a different truth.
Many words (logos—legion) sealed
The Word of God contained
Hidden—to foreigners concealed
Lest by interpretation explained—
The Word itself crucified
One word at a time—of prophecy
Understanding then applied
Androgynous— One becomes three
Many become one by immovability
When understanding (crucifies) or binds
The Word in which it sees
And wisdom is what it finds
Potent prophetic words sealed
Crucified by understanding
Lest— by a prophet is revealed
When wisdom starts boasting
fresh
white
lots of light
someone famous slept here
Or thats what they said
if thats the case how old is this bed?
Here lies the body of another one gone
sent to the edges where the riches meet the lawn
who might sleep here tonite?
stories of revivals and new scenes alight
but somehow something just doesn’t feel right
Too crisp
too clean
Something murky in all the glean
honey let’s go home
I miss the City in all it’s real
something doesn’t feel
right here
no one knows who’s been that mirror
Nobody lives here anymore
tell that agent we’ve changed our minds
what did we come here for?
that house on the hill with the torn up blinds won’t look good like this
even in our minds
How about let’s not be part of the gentrifying times
“Love the Words.” Unknown
When you feel yourself falling asleep
be in love with your words.
Closing your eyes, finalize
accept what you wrote.
Be at ease
you left no stone unturned in cliche.
Every emotion shown through metaphor.
Personification relation in every situation.
Love your poems.
Accept your prose.
Know your verse.
Be in love with how you started,
cherish how you grew,
until you ended.
Til then, keep your journal
wide open.