24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Donna *** Teacher, learner, wonderer, dreamer *** Writer of Things, some of them poems or near facsimiles
unprecedented
there is no recipe for this
no steps to follow one upon the next
but feel your way in the dark
reaching out along the dim passage
uncertain if the floor itself will hold
or what creature will appear next
to torment you
if I had words to give you
instructive, enlightening
words to lift your spirit
doubtless, I would share them
but no
in this
you are alone
just, keep going
Mary Anning
Gentle waves washed the English coast
Where once Mesozoic oceans played
Creatures odd and massive it did boast
Now walks this fatherless, solitary maid
Her intent, to find curiosities to sell
Remains of shellfish long gone from the sea
“Snake-stones” for which the tourist paid well
To aid her low class and hungry family
This day her discovery is something new
Sixteen meters long, a jaw with teeth,
Flippers propelled it through the briny blue
A gift to Mary the sand did now bequeath
The ichthyosaur was Mary Anning’s find
When she was but a young girl of twelve
A life-long passion Mary then refined
And into the past she eagerly did delve
No women could join the Geological Society
No low-class person was credited with their finds
Yet Mary was recognized for her authority
And worked with scientists, a meeting of the minds
Anning changed the view we have of the past
Exploring creatures no one had ever seen
An ichthyosaur was named for her at last
Reminder of this explorer of the marine
Practice
Practice, they say
Reminds the body of
Actions and thoughts
Compatible with the
Task you with to
Improve and master
Consequently practice
Every day
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
A chef of great talent and skill was he
To construct this dish of pastry and bird
Presented to the king with pomp and glee
Only for it to take wing without a word
The king, cared he not for pies and such,
Spending his time in totaling his books
The queen, her lips no birdy pie would touch,
Bread and honey, she ordered from the cooks
The blackbirds, released from doughy prison cell,
With all the world to wander in free flight
Chose now to persecute one lonely belle
Giving her tender nose a vicious bite
We, who tormented in the past, may be
As cruel to others when we are set free
Shoot the Moon
1.
I was four years old the summer
when astronauts landed on the moon.
My brothers and I
knelt close to our black and white screen
for hours.
I was excited because they were excited.
But the actual moon walk took place
after midnight local time.
I couldn’t stay awake.
and was so pissed that no one woke me up to see it.
2.
Later my family was discussing a trip
we had taken to the zoo.
My little brain mixed up the words
“zoo” and “moon.”
Soon I was picturing tunnels under
the surface of the moon
filled with cages of tigers and zebras.
For a long time, I was convinced,
inside my own head,
that I, a four-year-old child,
had been aboard a mission to moon.
3.
In school
the teachers would roll out
the big television sets on carts
whenever something big was happening
on one of the missions to the moon.
One time we got to watch a splashdown.
“Splashdowns are my favorite part,”
I assured my first-grade teacher.
As a teacher now
I realize
the TVs were not for us
or for any educational value.
The teachers just wanted to watch it themselves.
4.
My brothers were into model rockets.
They built them from kits, inserted engines,
and shot them off.
I was always part
of the ground recovery crew.
One year we took a trip out west
in our old station wagon
pulling a camper trailer.
We saw a sign for the Estes Factory,
the very kits my brothers made.
My dad pulled into the lot,
and they gave a tour
just for our family.
At the end, we got to shoot off a rocket.
This time,
I got to press the button.
At least, that is how I remember it.
Technolotree
The trees have Wi-Fi,
but do not give the password out.
The flowers have Bluetooth
which connects them only to the sprouts.
The squirrels keep their iPads
hidden in clefts in hallow trees.
The ducks’ Facebook accounts
are locked with hidden keys.
You knew the forest was peaceful
and seems a gentle lot.
The forest, though, is conspiring,
for they do not wish to be caught.
Firefly Reflections
A faulty screen allowed the firefly
to make his way, one night, into my room.
After a bit of daze, and questions why,
about the chamber he began to zoom
Soon enough he found the glass mirror’s shine
and gamely studied his reflection there.
Did he see someone equally as fine?
Or only a rival’s repugnant stare?
We know ourselves when our image we see
and grasp, a bit, how the science works.
But do we like our twin, this devotee?
Or see only our blemishes and marks?
I do not think that they will sing to me,
these creatures of desire and love.
Songs of the deep are meant for other ears
in other lands, or in times gone by.
Though, and here’s the vexation,
I still wish to hear the melody, old as I am.
And so, I walk the beaches
at the turning of the day
when misty spray makes distant rocks unclear.
I fancy I see the flip of a tail,
the long hair shining on fish’s scales,
the outline of an upturned breast.
And, listening hard, I seek to tease out notes
from the washing of the waves on shore.
But, no. There is no song there.
Just a silly old man in rolled trousers,
alone, always alone, on the sand.
The Return
(based on Something Told the Wild Geese by Rachel Field)
Something told the wild geese
Homecoming time was nigh
Though the southern sun was warm
Something whispered, “Fly!”
The gulf winds gently blew
The grass was tender, young
But though life was free and easy
Something urged them, “Come.”
The surf was rich and salty
With shrimp declared the best
But each wild heart quickened
At thoughts of young and nest
Something told the wild geese
Homecoming time was nigh
Winter’s rest was over now
So called the summer sky
Goldilocks
Three members of the family Ursidae
Mater, Pater, and their little son
The porridge hot, decide not to stay
Went for a walk, having eaten none
A little lass with hair a golden hue
Vagrant, she infiltrated their small house
Ate up their food, broke chairs, and then she strew
Bedclothes and other items thereabouts
The bears, arriving home, beheld the scene
A house in ruins, such a shock to find
The neat abode, so tidy and so clean
Wrecked by one child, unmannered and unkind
When talking bears and human children meet
Trouble follows, and that not incomplete