The April Selected Poet is Elizabeth Prasse
Please feel free to email Elizabeth at: bethprasse@gmail.com
THE REFLECTION OF THE RAT
a little bit swollen amid the fever
every moment pains to blink with chills
the illness howls and turns close to the esophagus
no matter how still lying atop the pillow
help never arrives although already here
rather engages in another brigade
barking at the renegading hungry mouths
and claiming innocence at the highest cost
needles prick every mortal nerve
solid iron nails with jagged teeth are pressed
desperation guards my anger in a silent prayer
being granted a cushion of oxygen that lifts me
released into the barrel of adrenaline
the moment cannot contain a mothers fist
giving power within a meteor explosion
and settling like dust in the starry night
never recovered though motions sweep
the moon shines weak in its bitterness
sheepishly watching her boldly return to sheets
he is not even half the man inside the window
the rat has stolen hearty scraps of spirit
he has devoured the cotton and torn the bread
stashing seeds beneath ice wintered roots
filling his gluttonous belly with heaps of grits
with only a few steps before my circulation
i carefully inspect the wiry tailed reflection
determined to rid the trace of his invasion
his uninvited waters will not sodden my soul
the approaching gong loosens its belt
steady in the current and escorting the year
pointing to the fields where the rodents will swarm
to be trampled beneath the hooves off the ox
TENDERS
the inner poet lashes out with insensitivity
long has it slumbered
each artistic muscle aches from inactivity
shards of glass could be jaggedly arranged
to display this dimming soul
a star of complicated transparency
acrylic purples bleed into the deep
maroon wasteland of definition
splattered across a barren face
unprinted photographs collect dust
upon over exposed shadows
that cast colorful glares upon the sepia
ballads of history rekindle bitter wars
peeling away layers of new skin
and revealing every vulnerable chord
AUFSEHER
He’s not Roman though his face is dark
is he an Officer? there he stands on the ground
i try to poke him in the chest to see if will move
perhaps he is a stone? though i see red i feel his blue
there is grass in the field within the iron gates
it sprouts at his feet and crawls up his leg
soft the way that i would if i could reach through this state
he’s not speaking but his mouth seems parched
is he an Officer? wounded in a brutal attack
i try to release this inner struggle that tries to haunt
perhaps he is a ghost? though i see flesh i feel so gaunt
there are my bones in the meadow outside the church door
they are scattered by the trees and rest by their roots
hard the way they remain there like i do staring at his core
he’s not mortal though he pretends the throne
is he an Officer? mounted on Olympus toward the sky
i try to point out his constellation in the black of summer
perhaps he is a traveler? though i see stars I’m no astronomer
there is the moon filling up my view and keeping me awake
his face is always looking down and away from the world
Elizabeth Prasse resides in Orange County, California, exploring every dark corner of her soul, trapped inside a body formed of dust, seeking to evolve and unlock mysteries of who she is and may become; as an artist, poet and a living being.
Elizabeth has been printed in The Harmless book project (http://www.harmless.org.uk/); her artwork has been featured in and on the cover of Chiamata alle Arti italian art-zine; she is part of an international art trading community; has worked on artist collaboration projects and private commission work.
Under the name Jelefi she is always engaging artistic expression. Her camera is always in tow. She has written poetry, but it is through painting that she loses herself; wandering in labyrinths of emotional discovery, painting paths thick with hope and pain. Where her words fail and Elizabeth retreats, Jelefi indulges to release the passion she feels, becoming the drafty window to her soul.
You can see Elizabeth’s gallery HERE