24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
to meet with people
can be a joyous thing
you share, commiserate, or
a smile to others bring
and yet, sometimes,
to be in a large group
can lead your bright spirits
into a lonely droop
a friend may be waiting
amongst the busy crowd,
or distant and unkindly glares
could leave your warm heart cowed
thus, do not despair if you find,
a cold, unwelcome greeting
for in a moment you may see
the sole sweet grin in the meeting
those belly aches I give you
or the close-to-choking fits
are not attempts to kill you, I promise
but rather to revive your wits.
for too often you forget, I fear,
to guffaw, or chortle, or chuckle
the world is full of comic things
and from humour’s teat you should suckle.
Mr Malcom, the Vervet monkey,
unlike those other scoundrels,
prefers a sedate walk along the ground,
instead of wild branch flounders.
When the troop attack the house,
and loot the poor man’s kitchen,
Malcolm will be sampling wine and cheese,
and perhaps a fine roasted pigeon.
For Mr Malcom is a gentle-monkey,
He avers the fighting and screeching.
Though indulging his philosophical bent,
His peers avoid the sanctimonious preaching.
Golden syrup, sugar and oats,
A perfect recipe for sticky fingers.
Press the gooey mix onto a tray,
And bake until a warm scent lingers.
Open my eyes, first thought
smooth, dark bitterness tempered
by a dash of milk
A hit of caffeine
is what I crave, awoken
by my own dark dreams
The heat on my lips
is reassurance enough
to chase dread away
A man gazes at his son
Remembering
The words his father said to him:
‘You’re a chip off the old block.’
His son looks up, sensing him there
‘Pa?’
Oh, it’s nothing, I was just thinking,
I used to sit like that too.
Thoughts turn to his father, again,
Bloodied
He limped up the porch stairs to hear –
‘You’re a fighter, just like me.’
Everybody tells him, that boy is your twin
Yes,
He is my golden boy, of course I’m proud
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
My father said much the same thing,
But
Then I grew, and changed, and left
And my father’s pride left too.
And so, I wonder, as I look at you
Will
I love you, when you are grown,
And no longer the image of me?
I might remember you
Though it is hard to tell
I think you were quiet
But you wrote rather well.
Ah yes, the redhead
There weren’t many of you at school
Were you caught smoking?
No, you wouldn’t break a rule.
Year after year,
So many come and go,
I’m sure you’ll forgive me,
When I forget to say hello.
Well, good luck then,
I really wish you all the best.
You seem very special,
Just the same as all the rest.
Observe the growth of the vine,
To understand what little time
We have, under this burning sun,
For soon you shall see none.
The years shall steal your health and vigour,
Weaken bones and diminish your figure.
But before you succumb to your earthly grave,
Remember – hope is not Time’s to enslave.
Fast grows the vine, without consideration
Of the dull, poisonous, creeping trepidation,
All creatures of a certain age begin to feel,
When the shadows of death become too real.
So live as you will, not as you must,
Do all that you can before you turn to dust.
And give no mind to the inching of time,
But seek the wisdom of the growing vine.
Prompt 5: Image prompt
It was the year nineteen twenty-two
And Ireland was free, after much ado
The English got the boot,
Long they may mourn their loot,
While the Emerald Isle reigns true.
Prompt 4 – Write a poem set a hundred years ago, or a hundred years from now.
Vibrant, oh vividly, startlingly pink!
Or perhaps purple, or fuchsia, or maroon, I think?
Whatever shade it may be, the girlish child in me,
Delights in this absurdly bright pinkish tree!
Such silly, frolicking, fabulous fun
Could take place here, shaded from the sun.
Under the scattered rays tinted a rosy hue,
We will sip ciders and praise this glorious view.
