24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The street runs red with blood,
Only I can see
He flees, the perpetrator,
And the world goes on
Every world except mine
Her shrine,
Is built, and rebuilt each night in my heart
How hard is it to take a life?
The one that gave you life?
He covered his sins with her blood,
Called it honor
And I weep rivers from my land,
In a language they don’t speak here
I don’t want to be here
Everything’s too wide.
I don’t want to stay here
I hate how hot’s the ground.
So I’ll go up higher
Make the wide seem small.
Rise above the widened
And turn it into tall.
Because I…
Don’t have to stay here.
I can rise up high
Drift along the wind
And gladly touch the sky.
Hard lines and harder dates
Outlined in red, two dots
indicating sign here, and here,
congratulations! You know
absolutely nothing!
Here’s a degree.
On a summer evening, I gathered a raincoat and jars in which to catch frogs
Steam from my breath, out in the humid air, helped me to uncover a great mystery
As I breathed, I noticed moisture accumulating on a foreign object in the dirt
Nestled within the tomatoes, about an inch or two beneath the surface, I found a bottle, stuck between a couple of rocks
I used my elbow to push the bottle to the surface, forcing the rocks out the way. As I looked inside, I noticed the bottle contained a note. Upon examining further, the note was clearly composed by children, even if of age. It was a confession.
“It is 1942…” The letter began. “We, Phileas Ford and Phoebe Galewitz, our love peculating in anticipation for the future, hide this bottle in case we are found. You see, I, Phileas, am German. Phoebe is a Jew. It is too dangerous for us to be as one here. If you find this bottle, chances are, we have either been caught and killed or we have escaped, free to love one another someplace else. We just wanted someone to hear our story, to know that we lived and loved each other very much. Thank you and be blessed.”
I sat in awe of their strength and my freedom. We live in a world of prejudices still, so much said about love and those still, to this day, being judged for whom they choose to love when all we are asked in this world is to love and be loved. In 2021, there are still so many prejudices among races, genders, religions, etc. They existed both then and now. And to think of this, I feel sad. For as long as time has gone on and for as far as society has come, there’s still so far to go.
I can only hope Phileas and Phoebe’s love brought them strength, regardless of their outcome, because in the end, love truly is all we have and all we can take with us when we leave this earth. Maybe one day, everyone will be free to live however and love whomever they choose. I can only pray that will happen but wonder how many more bottles buried in the dirt will it take?
I want more,
but can’t ever seem to get it.
It sometimes creeps up on me
when I least expect,
one moment doing something,
and the next coming to,
fuzzy mind and thoughts,
wondering what happened,
a little drool on my chin
where my mouth came open
and betrayed me.
I can fall into it quickly,
but it’s also an elusive venture,
making me a walking zombie,
craving rest and coffee.
The journey is always ongoing
as I search how to turn off my brain,
watching endless late-nights shows,
fighting off the urge to mindlessly snack,
and hoping the end of this road
finds me snuggled up comfortably,
steadily breathing,
and finally peacefully dreaming.
Ballon people need:
a lot of hot air to lift them up,
an aversion to gravity to pull them down,
the need to rise higher than the rest,
but,
there is never enough hot air to infinitely lift
and,
there is always gravity
to remind ballon people
they can’t always be higher than
everyone else.
And is inclusive
But is restrictive.
But is for ballon people.
And is for everyone else—
Realizing gravity is a good idea.
The day is ending the sun is slowly sinking down
she is ready with her cap cape and gown
to the wards she will make her way
to look after the sick,till is day
Nurse on night duty is an angel
her work is rare ,commendable
she helps the ill to be well and stable
may the Lord bless and keep her capable
As I struggle to login
I see the words
Wrong password
Wrong username
Oh how could this be
I been using this platform
A cazillion time
No this is not for real
The burst of thunder
And then lightening hit
The universe sounded the answer
There it was in a flash
Password wash locked
Username released
Now here I am
Copyright 2021(c)Roxann Lawrence (Poetessrock)
I miss my sons.
My eldest would have turned 41,
my youngest would have hit 40.
Neither of them would have looked
like their father, or like me.
More divine, but with feet of clay,
angel’s wings not quite white,
but a mother does not look at that.
They would have had to work, drown
in their own sleepless nights,
hold their own women with affection.
Or perhaps not. It does not matter.
I breathed their last breath
with them, tucked them in their
beds of earth, explained how
the bogey man came for them at last
and I could do nothing about it.
They would have understood that.
They knew they came from me.
They gripped my hands as they left.
Their lives were my first death.