24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
…You may not know the way
But it will find you
When you aren’t looking…
…You might make a wrong turn
And not just one
But every dead end
Leads you closer to your truth…
…You look lost to the world
You feel lost to yourself
But you are finding your way…
…And you find it
By wandering…
Zoom Frequent Flyer Miles
I’m a world traveler, learning time zones
and date changes before/after midnight.
I zoom from poetry events to writing
seminars and workshops; I’ve even
gone to a baking class, and all from
my desk chair.
I’ve booked more miles
in virtual time than in real time.
One Saturday afternoon, errands
done early, I zoomed into Dallas
at 3pm my time for a live event with
Joy Harjo, the US Poet Laureate, so
inspiring; then at 4pm, I raced off to
Riverhead, a town on the east end of
Long Island that I’ve been to once maybe
twice in my lifetime as a Long Islander,
and so glad I got there virtually, so good;
two hours later, a quick click off to Boston
before they locked the Zoom door at 6:15pm
and lucky to be the last open mic after
terrific features. I click off at 7:55pm,
refill my vodka tonic and make a run for it
to zoom to Kansas for a book launch for
a midwest poet laureate I read with
a few years back when he visited Long Island.
5,330 miles in 6 hours; no plane tickets,
no airport drive, no rent-a-car or hotel room,
no bad road food, no taxi/uber/bus, no lines,
no waiting, no way I could it without Zoom.
I’ve been to several stops in Britain,
to Amsterdam, so many United States,
I’ve lost track. A few stops, I didn’t know
where I was and it didn’t matter. It was all
amazing. I’ve made friends, kept several,
been inspired, delivered inspiration, spent
quality time with kindred spirits and
from a sideways perspective, I am grateful
for the pandemic for these experiences.
I’m hooked, zooming from now until
midnight my time forever.
~ J R Turek
June 26, 2021 Hour 9
The Hermit,
inverted,
reads isolation, most often
personal
Interpreted as needed rumination,
deep introspection to, hopefully,
a semblance of enlightenment
And as we creep from our terrariums (right KG?)
These humanariums, this innerverse of avoiding the horribles
Of plague
I wonder if this card is telling on us
Or warning us
Again
No. 10 – The Jewelry Belt
By Nandhini G. Natarajan
We dread moon-lit nights.
They always bring the bombers.
This is the third time tonight
we are running into the bomb shelter.
My skin around my stomach is chaffed
because of the heavy jewel belt.
It is bleeding in places.
When the war begins
The first thing I do
is protect the gold jewelry,
the only reliable security.
I stitch a sturdy belt with pockets
to hold the jewels.
During air-raids, it is easy to tie the belt
around my waist and
run into the air shelter
with my family.
Now I ask my husband
if he can wear the belt
during the next air raid.
It is still night when
the sirens sound
for the fourth time.
Wearily we get up
and trudge into the shelter.
The all-clear sounds, we crawl out.
Something is awry with my husband.
I look closely and am horrified.
My husband has slept with the belt
around his waist.
Half asleep,
he thinks he’s wearing the sarong.
He is standing stark naked
under the bright moonlight,
with only the jewelry belt.
Fortunately, the war ends soon after.
At every air raid,
our children look at their father
and collapse with laughter,
regardless of the falling bombs.
Sanderlings quickstep with the waves
shucking and jiving seaside style.
They dip, dip, dip their beaks in the sand
trying to score a crustacean lunch of
crab salad or plankton plate.
On the mud flats the oystercrackers
roam with their red beaks ready for
a salty mollusk meddly.
Tourists line up at restaurants with
names like The Grand Marlin and
Peg Leg Pete’s, but beyond the
dunes and pier Poseidon waits with
his famous trident. It is 2017 and I
stare across the sparkling water
of Pensacola Bay at the Naval Air
Station. I’m missing my daughter,
wondering what she could be doing over there,
because I’m hoping Poseidon decides
tonight will stay calm.
All but a grain of sand
Sitting under a wildflower
or am I yielding a sword of power
so much strength in my simple hand
Is my cage of wide bars
such, so I cannot reach the stars
There, a spoken demise
From a ragged hungry dog
or a prisoner amidst the flog
So fearful, yet strangely wise
Heaven’s storm is brewing
and Love’s heart stewing
Birds share a meager place
content with very few seeds
carrying out God’s given deeds
as we ne’er see their gentle face
We take credit for their life
concerned to cure only our strife
Those glorious servants so loyal
their work forever unpaid
the butcher’s knife has been laid
for a feast prepared so Royal
Where does this misuse arise
within our cruel assumption of prize
This cry for human blood
a lifeline to the prayers of earth
The answer: a song of mirth
avoiding hatreds mighty flood
We know not of tomorrow
amidst the blinding of our sorrows
The sun rises
despite the resistance to its course
We, unkindly, of little remorse
with our corruption of assizes
Yeh… the is believing
and a Godly hand receiving
I refused to let them beat me down
Spread me thin and forget about me
I looked up at periwinkle sky and imagined
dreamed
of taking a large needle and sewing up the tears
that had formed from their words
Alone in my grove
my own Forest Ranger
I twisted at sourdough scented words
Coughing clouds of pine needles
they wanted me to believe that comfort
breeds weakness
Catch me if you can.
Running away from.
It all,
Just barely.
Made it.
Into,
My bedroom.
The Music: it surrounds us.
The world just melts away.
Its all of us together
riding the sound waves
Our intuitions intertwining: Comingled, not colliding.
In ten million different ways.
Our Emotions synchronizing
Only movement can remain.
Our worlds are simplifying.
Yet every complexity is engaged.
Unflinching and Unvarnished: Acceptance meets connection.
Solemnly received. And freely gave.