24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
“Don’t You Know Me”
what will remembered
of me
will there be moments
where my spirit
will be called
a generation, maybe two
living
the rest is ancestry
our souls, when they return
will they still choose
to know me
my words, will they
live for eternity?
Running from the truth
Always ready to take flight
Vowing to look within
Eternally grateful for second chances
Never forgetting who I truly am
Lost in Oblivion
This digital age has become an undoing
Of communication and of common sense
Whole words whittled down to mete fragments of lingo
And at youthful minds own expense
The kids of today have lost their direction
Eyes deeply buried into their phones
To where many don’t know how to make conversation
Staying trapped in their tech all alone
I have heard of some that have walked into traffic
Without even batting an eye
Not aware of surroundings or risking tomorrow
With no clear answer as to why
The phone use may be a clear sign of addiction
A pandemic within its own right
For safety concerns are evermore apparent
In each downloaded gigabyte
There once was a time when a stream was where fish swam
And viruses were only the flu
Where smishing sounded but akin to a gurgle
And humanity still had a clue
Technology has brought us many an advantage
But each forward step is one back
And sadly, the youth of today are the victims
Of common sense’s great cyber attack
A twisty tube of a shock of colours
They swirl and bend; the mirrors and glass, partner in tandem
And at every turn
A new perspective, a new world
I shake the kaleidoscope again and again
Until I become fluid and I find my heart in the kaleidoscope…
I teach
middle schoolers
Who act like
pre school kids
Everyday I hear
The same complaints
And everyday I tell them
The same things over again
∞ repeating rules like a ˜broken record˜
At least… Pretend?
And everyday they listen
only to forget.
I teach, but more than that…
I meditate.
breathe in∼
breathe out∼
yeet.
my last long relationship ended
much like my childhood felt
the vague haunting of a roommate
though none were ever seen
a shower mat left on the floor
new pile of dirty dishes
the coffee maker empty
still warm
(my bed just the same)
the doors here are like magic
open and close all on their own
when summer comes
the chilly draft is almost tolerable
if there were a sighting
it vanished on the spot
a peripheral kind of love
I had grown quite used to
the more I tried to force connection
the more ghosts grew evasive
better still than slamming objects
or screaming through the walls
without something to physically grasp
I often wonder if it was all imagined
if my paranoid mind created apparitions
to make me feel less alone
or maybe I am the ghost instead
the one that lingers after all life has gone
with no one left to tell me
that I’m not really here
Sounds of laughter
come out through my voice.
They are not always my own.
My silvery hair seems
to hang in such a way
That our resemblance is uncanny.
I’ve felt her presence
Since she’s been gone.
I’ve seen it my entire life.
Others notice more than I
Her daughter wills tears to dry
before I can see or hear them
My niece studies my face before reaching out
to stroke my cheek.
I hold my niece close
sharing our grief
even as I add to hers.
8pm. Poem 18
Fireghosts
They will stay.
Their smoke will scent
freshly painted buildings
their footprints will sink
into the sand
where no one else has been
their sighs will sing out at sunset.
They will gather under her.
They gather there now
under and on her.
They will tell the story
of fire and destruction
to reef fish and minah birds
who have yet to be born
and to tourists
who will soon return.
Their voices will be everywhere
unmistakable and clear.
They will be woven
into the kapa
of new Lahainatown.
I can still hear your squawk in Westbury.
So loud up high inside a tree.
Didn’t keep my car windows open long
for fear you’d fly inside.
I wonder why you shouted so much
you seemed to be alone all the time.
Alone inside that ever so large size of an evergreen tree.
Your face so dark I couldn’t see your eyes.
You looked like a sign of death.
A sign aimed at me I feared your every breath.
It was your large size and stature that truly frightens me.
Too large to be a crow
too small to be a hawk.
A real raven is what I saw,
glad summer school is over
rid of you that’s for sure.
I used to hate crows, scavengers of the earth
squawking, snatching, swamping the skies
when one died, shot by that stray bullet
frightening us into the house.
But then they said that crows were good
that when they eat the food
offered to the dead it is as though
the dead have returned.
Since then I feed the crow sometimes,
I do not turn away, irritated,
when it pecks at my window,
cawing through the glass.
Have you returned then?
Do you see the world through its squawk?
Or is that just wishful thinking
and that crow merely a sentient of the dark?
