Elliot: The Poet King
Pink-haired street poet
last lion on the block to be picked
to prove that his rhyme is as big as his roar
that his appetite for words is not to be feared
as he shouts from his corner, “People,
your war is more uncivilized than the jungle!”
The following was written from the Sunday Scribblings prompt, “eccentric." ~ I’m so eccentric that I just spent an hour writing a forty-eight word poem about a pink lion when I wanted to be cleaning my kitchen or doing my Sunday Scribble. My pink lion is a poet named Elliot who was up for adoption HERE. I named him “Elliot” after a one time member of my writer’s workshop, also a poet, who died a couple of years ago.
Elliot, the man, was a bit of a curmudgeon who walked hunched over with a cane and lived on a monthly disability check. Some people thought of him as eccentric. He wore a purple beret and liked to stick a flower behind his ear. The floor of his car was covered with pistachio nut shells. He collected things – t-shirts, ink pens, plastic bags, magazines – to the point of hoarding. His poetry was raw, sometimes disturbing, and worthy of publication. He hated what was happening in Iraq.
Occasionally Elliot posed for The Floyd Figures Art Group to earn a little pocket money. One of the last times he sat for them, the artists decked him out in kingly attire; a royal robe, a crown on top of his long mane of hair, his cane took on the look of a staff, his long beard gave him a renaissance air.
After he died, our Writer’s Circle held a memorial spoken word night at the Café Del Sol for him. Sketches and paintings of him, done by the Figures Group, were scattered throughout the café. One lion-like image of Elliot, titled “Poet King,” sat prominently on an easel by the poet’s mic.
At the Shameless Lions Writing Circle where adoptions were taking place, I was hoping to find a lion with a purple beret like the one that Elliot wore, but there was only one lion left out of forty-eight of them, and it was pink. At first, I wasn't impressed, but I felt sympathetic to the fact that he was the last lion waiting to be picked, and soon I was feeling a bond.
But I had to write a forty-eight word tribute in order to be eligible for my lion. While I was composing the above poem for the last lion waiting on adoption somebody claimed him. His new owner named him Johnny Cash.
Should I ask for visitation?
Post Note: I guess I scribbled after all.