 Photo Art by Reka Jellema. November 5, 2014. Untitled. the others slipped into themselves by moonlight slipped out of sight and through our neighbour`s pasture where a rope stretched from one oak to another cloaked in billowed bed sheets loosed to the October night cotton shirtsleeves pale and cold in almost dark birds aloof livening the clothesline little boys and girls materialised as the ones they were alive daisies radiating waves of glowing white stung by a day in the sun appeasing gods who spaded holes and grew them up just to watch them pass away leaving her, a tree devoid of leaves empty arms cradling the unfilled spaces swing sets lilt in breezes idle there are rooms she never enters drawers of clothes that just won`t open lest the cloying baby talcum rise to sting her eyes the others - they have others left behind her eyes spill reveries that never can be how neatly made the bunk beds the little boys and girls go out to play they sit in a place at the back of the throat and keep close company with sorrow the others slip into a spell life after life one day the world will open up earth will meet sky hand over hand we shall shimmy up rope, watery hope upon watery hope Written by Reka Jellema & Kathryn Ross Copyright Reka Jellema & Kathryn Ross November 5, 2014
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Photo Art by Reka Jellema. September 2014. Untitled.
Have you never tried to hold ferns
feathery ferns overgrown ferns ferns rippling have you not thrown yourself on the ground to study the underside of ferns veiny leafy ferns ferns waving do you not see now how inadequate our grope for words, picture undulating tongues tipping toward the verdant do you not know how deficient this fumbling when once-fleshed girls, boys sleep under beds of ferns how futile to reach for ferns to know fern-ness to wonder what Plato would have said or Aristotle about the nature of ferns a keen green keening in sun stains ferns en masse a jungle of ferns all over your body ferns O little boy your voice never quieted it rasps on and I cover you with ferns By Reka Jellema September 2014 
Airfoil
Come along little one it won't be long the blue heron walks and walks hands behind her back we keep our distance solitary beings being solitary I wanted to be a lappet-faced vulture toe-sprawled on tiptoe wings heavier-than-the-heaviness-of-all glossy and black, weightier than an Oxford Encyclopedia the one with the drawer with a magnifying glass I would be hideous ghoulish beautifully deformed Gothic-hero-ugly the gaping yawn of a cathedral One day little one we will stand together you have hovered too long we will rise up and slam the air down with monstrous wings beat at the emptiness stroke every soul we lost all of the dust of all of us will be flour from the fists of our Mother we will be salt from a shaker we will steal back the breath the angels stole we will transgress: Celestial theft Come along little one it won't be long  the son i never wanted
wants his body back calls for a name a hand a heat grate two walls and a basket of books and the eyes of a wicker chair to kaleidoscope when you stare the son I never wanted wants a marble named Mario that train set mom gave away the lost gray waves of the tug boat the steely chop-chop-chop cold wavy-waves of the great lake chopping at the chill-blink of sky the wave before the wave after and the wave to come the wave upon which he head-butted the shore -- O little one for the smoothed green stone and the blue beach-glass prize for every Leland stone for every pinprick fossil for the footsucking edge-of-the-surf sand-suck it was nothing |
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