24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Text Prompt
Write a poem exploring the word normal. It could be in the context of pre-pandemic life and the present, how normal needs to be better,or about how normal has always been different within your family. Any interpretation or interaction with the word normal, works as a response to this prompt.
Idea contributed by Shirley Durr.
Image Prompt
Broken Wings
With Earth not nearly enough
to rescue me from this failing fate
I think
of my childhood dreams to soar
but now feel as though
with broken wings I tread
Broken wings are painful, you know
painful like a dream deferred
–painful, O Lord, very painful
But my wings aren’t clipped –only broken
For, when heaven and earth embrace
and I, on earth, flutter still,
I will be caught in heaven’s arms
and have healing infused and strength renewed
Then my once broken wings
will soar will still on earth
and through the heaven proceed
soaring through a in beautiful
all the way to my journey’s end
First tornado siren goes off:
Hurry. Hurry. Pack it light and fast.
Grab only what you need, what will last.
We’ve far to trek so boots will be best,
they are good for hiking, We’ll give them a test.
Following day, reaching through the rubble, Robert calls out to Lily:
“Where are you;
reach out your hand so I can see you,
I’m coming to you.
Do not move if you are bleeding.”
Heart pounding, Robert pleading
As he pulls a dresser away, he heard Lily say:
“Here, here. I’m stuck and can’t reach up.”
There is no force of nature to keep him from getting to her side.
Finding supernatural strength, Robert steps
carefully through the brokenness that is now their life.
Together finding items they treasure,
one helps the other to realign and measure
what matters most as daylight slips away,
they must come back to search another day.
They have each other, and nothing material matters.
Hand in hand, they trudge through the pieces, all scattered;
evidence of a life suddenly shattered.
Too many seeds, too little juice —
life can be a tight squeeze.
I was angry today with too many things,
all of which had nothing to do with me,
and yet I let them all bleed,
ran through their throats with my tongue,
very silently, of course,
so as not to offend, or to be a source
of discomfort.
We’re not allowed to shake the tree, but
must wait till all the worm-infested fruits
drop of their own accord.
When your ground is shaking
And your heart is breaking
When you feel like you want to cry
You don’t even know the reason why
I’ll be there to hold your hand
And support you when you can’t stand
I’ll stay by your side
All day and night
You can tell me all your secrets and lies
I promise to keep them till I die
I’ll share you laughs, I’ll share your heartache
Even in the moments when you break
Through your dark times, I’ll stick with you
I will always stay true
So don’t be lonely, don’t be scared
Just know I’ve always cared
I got you and you got me
Together we’ll have an incredible journey
Open widely your arms
and receive happiness!
‘coz the end is not here!
Not yet! There’s still hope!
Just learn where to find it!
Seventeen Year Cicada
This is the year they break through once again,
seventeen years as nymphs underground
will come to an end.
Their years long, dark preparation,
feeding on the roots of their life giving trees,
will cease when they burst their way forth
into the light.
They will shed their nymph skins,
pump blood into new wings,
and screech en masse for a mate,
only to produce their eggs
and die, a bountiful feast for the birds.
Four times they’ve appeared in my life,
as a newborn, at seventeen,
at thirty-four, and now at fifty-one.
I can be forgiven for not remembering the first,
but their coming warms me with memories once again.
At seventeen, I anticipated the last year of high school ahead,
a summer of shimmering promise obscuring the horizon beyond.
At thirty-four, I was a young mother shepherding my daughter through
summer camp, marveling at the massed singing insects in the trees.
At fifty-one, I am settled and content within my skin at last,
grown children and small grandchild with me in the home I will be in until I die.
I step out the back door and clinging warmth surrounds my chilled body,
sun on my scalp and shoulders,
cicadas singing their susurrating song once again.
I close my eyes in gratitude, and step back inside.
For 10 days it was suspended above the Earth
it cried everyday and night
saddened over the world or confused and scared
who could say
most said ‘both’ with a shrug
they formed religions to it, tossing their Bibles
until the hyper giant tears flooded the cities
and then also the countryside
(which irritated the ones who thought they were the true chosen
you know because the city folk are all heathen sinners, and like
why the thing was even crying in the first place)
and they got over it real fast
and they started throwing things at it
because it also kept them up all day and night
in total, they threw 230,987,124,780,123.5 objects at it
including the Bibles they tossed
they rushed the landfills and found them
and then just tossed them straight up
some people got hit on the head by falling Bibles
and straight up died
those Thomas Nelson ones are heavy
the thing continued to cry
until the world nearly flooded
and then it disappeared
and this also caused a number of bad things to happen
satellites taken offline in such number that
the internet basically died
people threw even more objects, in anger, at the spot where the thing had been
around 345,678,980,342,400.2 objects
and then the tears came again, from the nothing that was there, drowning what was left.
I traveled the system,
the secret system no one
whispers about, fear they will
be thrown in. I am a historian.
I am a journalist. I belong here.
Just for stabilization.
Converted motel. Roommates
three feet apart. Teresa with
the stutter. Teresa with the
seizures. Teresa with the open
heart, broken. Teresa with
the fear. Teresa with the tenderness,
the fall.
Equine face against mine. Tears.
Mystery tears. Shoulders caved
inward, collapsing my rib cage. I
cannot sing. I could not. I cannot still.
Med lines. Glucose test.
Blood pressure, temp,
inverted moon. Bowel movement?
Rate your pain. Days I felt
homesick. Did not want to leave.
Where the crazy people go.
Where the hurt people go.
Where the pain took us when
there was a dead end or a thread
or a bridge or a rope.
Too much for one poem.