New Creation
The new world opened up for now
change happened in a new lighting
darkness was always coming
serendipity there
world controlled by soul
spirit unbend
new world here
next thing
GOD!
Flow
What might happen
If you jumped
The margins
Exceeded the lines
Let the ink
Twine
Along
Your
Fingers
Wind
Cursive lines
Up
Your
Spine
Flow
With
Your
Blood
Circulate
And
Stain
Your
Heart
What if you
You made
Visible
And
Unblushing
Your love affair
Of words and sound
Un bound
From the page
Allowed
Vibration
And
Vibrancy
As they find
F O R M
On the vessel
Of voice
To
E
C
H
O
And have life
Beyond
The ruled lines
And fragile sheet
FLOW
My feet move
A rhythm no one else can hear
Dancing at my own tempo
I let go
Giving my body to the flow
Moving for the joy
Prancing on tiptoe
Doctor, Please
Doctor, Please
Can you soothe the ache
of a childhood riddled with bullies
and teachers blinded by a lack of
compassion, not knowing what
to do for me?
Can you stitch away the scar
under my left arm, one I don’t need
to hide but feel when winds turn brisk?
I won’t say I’m blameless but I didn’t
ask for this.
Tell me, can you ease the agony
of a shattered heart, beaten with
a mallet of indifference? If hatred
had hammered me, I could understand,
accept it but pain given to a stranger
to release heirloom racial, religious,
political hatred to an innocent victim
is something I cannot comprehend.
Can you restore dignity to confidence
crushed by greed of the needy, a jealousy
that all that is mine belongs to them? My
possessions are meager but shallow minds
are savage, don’t care that I work hard;
they’ve never had a job.
Can you detox a soul stolen of mercy,
me left hung over a precipice without
an offered hand up? I am repentant for
my misdeeds, penitent for mistrusting
the world but pure in intent to be cured.
Doctor, please, can you erase my ache?
~ J R Turek
June 26, 2021 Hour 11
Across the Pond
In the storefront, the wellies reigned supreme,
Periwinkle, orange, and Monet green,
All sprouted with Macs, to celebrate spring—
At the apex of summer.
Every size and color (rain apparel galore),
Besides the bumbershoots strewn on the floor,
That spilled out of a rowboat propped near the door—
Which, in July, seemed a very odd thing.
Bit of a stumper—
In plaid, Firth-blazoned, Cumberbatch-printed,
For brave puddle-jumpers, who downpour-sprinted.
Union Jack, Beatles, Churchill—
An extended range.
Maybe in winter, but not in July.
And many a bloke asked himself why.
And why here, did the thunderous clouds first appear?
Bloody strange.
Perhaps in the Highlands or Cumbrian Mountains,
In winter, of course, it dumped buckets—no, fountains.
And no one would wonder or make a flap—
Over quite-dampish ventures.
But Clacton-on-Sea, in deluge, was no lark—
Someone should ring up for Noah-and-Ark!
Weatherman, kindly turn off the tap—
Dry up the drenchers!
They gave us a list of words–and I struggled for more than two hours to make this work, make it fun. Please let it not offend anyone. Have you ever tried to research accurately for the customs, vocabulary, and authenticity of a country where you do not live? Someday, maybe, I can visit these places, but for now, I can only love it from afar.
Hour 12 Campfire
Fire crackles under ebony sky
teepee branches fall into flame
paper unfurls, turns to ash
smoke plumes swirl above us
marshmallow fingers
chocolate smiles
long stories
lovely
fun
A Clover Wish
four lucky green leaves given to me,
one for loving another heart
who is true to only you,
for health, wealth, and a home
that is happy and
full of plenty,
forgiveness,
peace, and
joy.
It’s On the Tip of My Tongue
A Haiku
It’s On the Tip of My Tongue
What’s that word again?
You know, it means to saunter,
amble, stroll, hike, trek.
Nanette’s Nonet
Nanette’s Nonet
Being careful is silly she screamed
You’re crazy he said to demean
His challenge seen as extreme
She bounced from a high beam
He laughed, she floated
Into a pool
so moated
alone
throne
Hour Twelve: Nine Lives
Nine lives to live, a tree’d cat mews;
I climb up high to rescue Boots,
the calico con artist
Cheshire smile peeking through
leaf clusters, hiding
protracted claws
awaiting hands
reaching out
to scratch
me.