24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
If medication sorely helps
And keeps at bay my muse’s yelps
then I might perk a bit upright
to forge ahead into the night
through moonlight’s bite and midnight’s roar
aloft across our salty shore
that I may place a word or two
to help express my love for you
Happy writing, my love!
The Witch at No 45
It’s best to stay home when the sun goes down
To not venture out and roam around
Not to risk the breathy embrace
As old Nelly Dean haunts still haunts her place
The house many think of a sweet home-from-home
But back in the day before you were born
Nelly practiced the art of witchcraft and necromancy
And cursed all those that took her fancy
Potions and vials still stock the shelves
Of the basement where if stones could tell
They would recall the horrors committed down there
To any too stupid a take the dare
On All Hallows Eve to play Trick or Treat
Eager for nice things collect or to eat
But once inside they would not survive
Because no one has ever made it out alive
I heard that you’ve been
going around town
talking like you know me-
when it is plainly obvious that
you know nothing
I am a strong person
I’ve had to be in order
to deal with the shit hand
life gave me
I am independent
I don’t have to depend
on a man to protect me
I can protect my own
by any means necessary
I am a fighter
I will fight for my family
my God and my country
I won’t take things lying down
just because you think a woman
should be quiet
I am powerful
I can make change happen
simply by standing up and taking
a stand against small mindedness
I am capable
I can do things for myself
I don’t need a man to help me
or do things for me
I am worthy
of so much
be it love
affection
and time
THAT is who I am
(This was a catchy title, was it not.)
Welcome, I’m narrator Melson with an M,
Not Nelson with an N.
This is not a fucking joke
I should not even be telling you about this story
Because one day I will have to pay the price for speaking about the unspeakable, diabolical, inhumane, incriminating story that I am going to tell. You, too, as reader, like the cat murdered by curiosity, will be affected by reading this story, you have been warned.
It was a long time ago,
Somewhere,
On 18th street,
A young Mother to be named Hortensia
Walks the sidewalk
Hands Tangled with his.
They kiss.
Thinking of names
Like Melony or James
Or Angel or Grace
Or Cielo or Antonia.
Apartment is cold.
The couple is poor,
But love in their eyes
A lovely surprise,
To see loving people
Whos love is that strong
They are right to be wrong
And right to belong
It’s a bond that not many can make
And others are outthere who made a mistake.
And faces that hate
Stuck with their fate
Plate after plate
They ate and they ate
but they never will sate.
The neighbor named Kate
A cradleless mate
Who lived with mistake
After fatal mistake
She had a miscarriage
That ruined her marriage
Her husband, assaulted,
rude and embarrassed
Said,
we’re ruined as parents.
Abandoned and left her
A fruit with no nectar
And thats when
the devil
began to affect her.
became like her mentor
at times would torment her
and made her
A depraved sexual offender
she looks for the tender
who dont let her enter
she walked to the home of
Hortensia and Vector,
She entered a woman
and came out a mother
a baby in blankets
all bloody and bandaged.
She died hours later
Pedestrian found her
on 18th and Walker
Alone in the street.
And Kate was arrested
Death by injection.
Charged with 3 murders.
Awaiting her death.
September the 2nd
1998,
the night when it happened,
they say, that on 18th st,
many have heard the cries of a baby.
and in Chowchilla Prison,
Inmates say they still hear the sounds of the lady
who cried every night, til the day that she died.
Inmate Katelyn Lee Hodges, age 45.
Thank you for your time,
I am narrator Melson with an M,
Not like Nelson with an N.
Goodnight.
The veil is thin between here, now
there and now, there and then
I have been visited from whatever
might be termed the other side
benevolent, mischievous, timely
encounters I have come to appreciate
There are things we cannot see
unexplainable, palpable
moments in time; visits from
people I have known
others I have not
some I am not at all sure of
we never converse
though I often hear
frequently respond
What separates here and now
physical, tangible
touch it with your hands now
is something within each of us
I don’t know who, don’t grasp why
not even sure that I am supposed to
if I say I am haunted
people will back away
though haunt only means
to be visited
to constantly seek the company of
to reappear continually
so sayeth Merriam-Webster
To say I am haunted by the past is
not up for debate
is not meant to show angst
it only means I get it
even when I don’t
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Brown, green weedy sludge,
Locks on coral grapsed, salt thighs,
He cuts at the flesh.
UNPROTECTED
Unprotected
You entered my world
Our hearts racing
UNPROTECTED
You treated me8f0
Like I owed you every breath
Unprotected
Your ego in charge
Your pleasure- Your sole priority
Unprotected
My body entangled in the chains
of your rage
Hopeless with no escape
It’s August still
and yet the field edges are
unseasonably alight.
Great stands of hawthorn hedges,
the most ancient in all of Cheshire,
loaded so heavily with scarlet fruit
bend over you,
into the wet wildflower meadows
created in the crook of the River Mersey,
the boundary river.
Author: ©️Jane Eckford
2nd September 2023
Sorry it was stuck in drafts
Maid’s limbs elongate,
Suckers escalate, marine,
Sea weed smothers walls.
She was rejected again and again
By every music company, by every music competition
But she continued playing her violin
Sometimes in the park, other times outside the temples
Today she sat in a deserted garden, closing eyes and
Playing the violin until her fingers bled
A homeless who regularly napped there, rushed to her
Why do you play it till your fingers and heart bleed?
“Because if wounds and hurt had a voice, they would be violins…”