24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
It has always belonged to you
Birthright, privilege, call it what you will
We are born into this world with something to claim
It echoes in the dark when one calls out your name
So often we are tamed, trained to ignore the draw
Distracted by static, the manic crackle of all
Of the outside world so loud it drowns out
The voice inside that says
That your magic is yours in whatever way it manifests and
It has always belonged to you.
(for hour 7—“normal” prompt)
That’s Not Normal
I woke him with the dreaded whisper,
“There’s someone in the livingroom.”
Having no reason to doubt me,
he leapt from dream-state to Dominant Male Protector inside of a second.
Then I whispered, to warn him,
“They’re very tall.”
Apparently, hallucinating alien-like creatures in one’s home is not supposed to be a side-effect of pain medication.
The following day, my oncologist told me, “That’s not normal.”
We both looked to my partner, “How’s your blood pressure?”
As the grass and the weeds die and wither
A building is growing — spots of color
but little diversity
My eyes are drawn to the yellow door’s handle
to the red door’s oval spot
calling attention to themselves
breaking up the rectangles, the squares
the patterns
everywhere else
But the ground and the grass
are not cut from cookie dough.
Maybe I missed something.
are they weeds?
are they dead?
will they see a resurrection
in the Spring?
Maybe the building is dying.
Maybe it’s the weed.
I see no life there.
The new normal wants so badly
to be the old normal
tries so hard to be carefree.
Maskless is the new breezy.
Everybody wants to be the new
Marlo Thomas smilingly skipping
across a busy New York street
tossing her hat into the air
not ever getting plowed down
by a yellow cab.
Poor new normal…
that just isn’t gonna work anymore.
That was the old normal
so pretty
so sanitary.
This new one needs some time to marinate needs some shots
probably lots of shots.
This new normal just might be
still and hot and hard
like Cardi B in the desert with a gun.
Being married in a small town is normal.
Being a married lesbian in a small town is like having three heads.
Having children to raise and watch grow is normal.
Having children as a lesbian couple is frowned upon and discouraged.
The loving parents who do what they feel is always best-
The care, thought and panic put into every decision-
every sacrifice….
Normal. States society.
Yet throw the word gay or lesbian in there-
Blasphemous! How dare they! Ruining the children! Inviting them into living a sinners world!
Craziness how one word can change the view of so many.
But my normal is just that…..
Normal.
I learned about an Elfchen poem from Donnetta Norris this past week. Here is one about walking from the last hour’s prompt.
Stride
to find
all the hopes
promised in arriving ready
Strong
Don’t talk too much.
Don’t play too loud.
Be the good little girl that whispers to her imaginary friends while serving them tea.
Mommy has a headache.
Daddy is tired.
Sister’s in the hospital.
Brother’s in jail.
Whisper to yourself that it’ll all be OK.
(inspired by my painting, HOME AT SUNDOWN)
I travel along familiar country roads
gravel clattering against my car,
my compass set for home.
I slowly drive the laneway towards barns and house
the sky glowing with rich jewel tones
the sun descending behind the distant trees
I know what awaits my arrival
And as I turn into the driveway, I hear him
His loud, throaty greeting filled with excitement
I can barely make it through the door
It’s hard controlling a 130-pound Great Dane
who still thinks he’s a lap dog.
“We brought them all back.”
All the memories and falsities
They returned with the meeting of our lips
Souring the sweetness of your eyes
And bittering the promise with truth.
The warm lips turned to fish
And the supple turned to smarmy.
Your kiss returned with all its passion
Everything you are
And so I turned away.
Normal might be a limiting line
that hedges us into tight
corners and right angles.
For my grandma and my mom,
cutting quilt blocks
is everyday straight life
but my normal recognizes
the circle of quilting is outside my
power of comfort.
My patterned mandala creates
its own book-lined comfort;
each of us must find the geometry
to shape our own normal.
Hour 7