Hour 24-Black

The view from my window

Through the reddest eyes I have known in a year

I see black,

dead of night,

2 AM.

Even the moon has grown tired.

There is no beauty

No great understanding

Not even a palm tree visible

Just black

And so we turn lights out

Another marathon done.

We steal away from our screens

Put away our dishes and spoils of war

We embrace the black

The dead of night

The end of light


Hour 23-Missing

About 4 hours ago

I started missing you

You seemed to desert me

My brain started working in mysterious ways

Not making proper connections

Not making perfect sense

I just knew you were gone

You snuck out the door

Didn’t make a sound

Left, deserted me

I know I didn’t entice you to stay

I didn’t give you reasoning

I didn’t feed you those psychological

questions you love so much

I let you leave

I didn’t try to stop you

But you and me,

We are a team,

Often estranged

I know, I admit

It’s me, not you

But we need each other

My dear, wonderful sanity

Sweet overworked friend

I hope you return in the morning

We can make a fresh start of things

We can find a way through this together.

this is only one night, a temporary setback

Don’t leave angry

Get a good night’s sleep

In the morning you will see

Everything will be fine.


Poem 22-

The clock moves slowly now

Almost standing still

The comments, the posts, the poems

Make little to no sense

My hand cramps from video games and typing

Cat left confused, not understanding his people at all

The snacks have been desecrated

The coffee has been weaned down in preparation for sleep

Yawns take the place of interest

Hour 22,

Inhibitions are gone

Taking common sense with it

They just packed their bags and left the building

All that remains are red eyes

Held open by will alone

Another poem published

Another struggle for words

A fist fight with perseverance

No giving up this close to the end








Poem 21-Don’t Go There

Word One

Don’t go down there

That place, it’s evil

Dark, dastardly, deceptive

You will regret it

There is a reason the past is buried there

All that nasty emotion

Those long forgotten memories

They will grab you and pull you back in

Next thing you know

You’ll be smothering tears in your pillow

And plotting revenge like a pro.

Don’t do it

Stay away

Keep that shit bottled up

Keep it under those layers of self pep talks

Keep it hidden beneath the late night ice cream and the

Stress donuts at dawn

It is dark there, dank, dangerous

Grab that shovel

Put more dirt on that casket

Burn a couple pictures

If you keep going there

That dead memory zombie will eat you

Throw your carcass to the next girlfriend to eat

and she doesn’t need the calories either

Hour 20-Bansai

I feel like a kamikaze poet now

Just all in to the mission

Buckle up

Scream Bansai

And crash into that next poem

Why care if I survive?

Who cares if the poem will be memorable?

Just take out that wall

Take down that number

Watch that poem become the next

My pillow awaits

The alarm won’t be set

I am past the point of caffeination

I am running on dwindling fumes

No moreĀ  brilliant ideas now

Just slide to earth with one crippled engine

And smoke coming out of the belly

I am a kamikaze poet




Hour 19- Poetry Space

This new poem is demanding space

Its own room actually

It insists I clean out cobwebs

And put new sheets on the bed

It insists on regular meals

A full deep cleaning

Hourly sprucing up

It demands its own shower for new ideas

It wants room to expand, grow

To evaporate and come back again

It wants it all,

This poem wants it’s own space

every bit of attention

It has baggage

It has trunks full of memorabilia

This poem needs space

and I am forced to give it

I don’t expect it to help with the rent either


Hour 19- Space


The Final Frontier

These are the voyages of Metaphor and Simile

Our 24 hour mission

To explore strange new worlds

Seek out new ways of describing normal situations

To boldly go where no poem has gone before

Hour 18-Tea



Grandma had her tea

Once at breakfast

Once around lunch time

Green tea

Steeped in her porcelain tea pot

With matching cups

I was invited sometimes

Sitting across from her

My tea weaker

with a spoon of sugar

Hers sweetened with saccharin pills

Mine lightened with milk

We would sip and talk

I felt grown up

Important, almost Victorian


Grandpa never joined us

He was a coffee man himself

But he set up the service for her

Boiled her water on the stove

Filled the pot for her

Added the bags


Their ritual twice a day

Every day


Later when they were gone

Mom and I had our own tea days

Earl Gray and Lemon Zinger

A cup in the microwave

Replaced the whistling kettle

Porcelain tea pots with matching cups

became decorations in the china cabinet


After Mom passed, it was just me

and soon the tea

Became coffee on the run


Sometimes I imagine sitting there

Gently holding the fragile tea cup

I can taste the milk

Hear Grandma’s laugh


Perhaps one day I will buy a box of green tea

Maybe pull out that whistling kettle

Let the tea steep in the Porcelain Teapot

Set out a fragile matching porcelain cup

And sip slowly

The way Grandma taught me





Hour 17-Loss

Life, death, love, loss

It’s all cliche

It’s been done


That broken heart

That dead loved one

That big hole left in the soul

We all live it, survive it

Poet’s write about it

Musicians sing about it

It makes our ” I can’t” Into ” I can”


This time I refuse

I can’t come to some grand acceptance

Fuck loss

Fuck death and it’s dirty tricks and games

There is nothing glorious or manageable

About a heart being ripped apart

Friends gone

Family dead

Another loss, another funeral

Another sad goodbye no one wants to do

No it doesn’t make us stronger

There is no God plan to rescue us

There is no brighter tomorrow

Just more of the same


Hour Sixteen- Sixteen going on Seventeen

Poem sixteen


Lack of sleep catching up with me

Need to infuse my caffeine system

Maybe throw in some protein

A vegetable

Some inspiration


A song from Sound of Music

Sixteen going on Seventeen plays in my personal

brain music network

A few minutes ago it was Putting on the Ritz

The Peter Boyle Young Frankenstein version

My husband singing it as he struggles to find his muse

I need Starbucks

I need ice cream

I need a diligent house boy

I need sleep

The enemy sleep

It has ammo aimed at my weakening system

I should be writing from a fictional character’s point of view

Stuck somewhere between

Jane Eyre, Maria Von Trapp

And Frank Underwood

All I can do

Is feebly limp through sixteen

On my way to seventeen

Waiting for life to start

Putting on the Ritz

Maybe cheese on a Ritz

Dipped in coffee


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