24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Monster inside. Fighting to be free. A black dragon, shiny and sleek. Don't let him out. Into the world he flies, with wings spread. A shadow blotting out the sun. It feels good to be out. Go anywhere, do anything. Be who I want to be. Have all the things. Watch out, the beast is loose. Pandora's box is broken. I will never be caged, ever again.
I don’t have a title.
I don’t have a poem.
There isn’t one hiding in the backgrounds.
I think we are both still simmering from an earlier interruption.
Have you ever been in the throws of passion,
just about to reach that volcanic explosion;
ready to jump off into the climatic cliff
when all of a sudden a toddler or God forbid older child makes their way in?
That is what it feel like to have an interrupted poem.
I am still mourning its loss.
If no one but me me felt it,
does that mean it didn’t really exist?
I have a list of titles for poems whose writing I looked forward to with great expectation-
but I am deflated,
all because of a poem interrupted in birth.
I hope it will come back.
But will it be the same if it comes back to me and I give it another name?
The march
The march is over
For a decade plus seven
The wait is over
Grubbing swimming through dirt
Inching toward the sustaining tree.
Slowly scaling the massive trunk.
Waiting under the shadow of leaves
For hard shell and wings to form.
Releasing songs
To start all over
Again.
I woke up tired and went to bed awake
never got used to living
with so much and so little at stake
I think about the future
I prefer the promise of tomorrow
yesterday is not so forgiving
I debate with my computer
never got used to living
but when I look past and
through my window
and strain my eyes real hard
I see a light off in the distance
and it’s really not that far
“Mr. Watson come here. I want to see you.”
“Good morning operator. Please connect me with Mr. Watson.”
I’m searching for Mr. Watson on my rotary phone.
If only I had seventy five cents more they’d connect me with Mr. Watson.
“Damn, I hit the wrong button. Now I’ll never find Mr. Watson.”
“Hey Siri. Connect me with Mr. Watson.”
Mitch Brown
Hr 6
Taking my time
Taking my time, seeing the sun, feeling it on my face.
Hearing the soft footpads, making me slow my pace.
Listening to the wind as it brushes past the trees
Stopping to say thank you, falling on my knees.
A day spent in the woods, one should never ignore.
Though it has been so forever, it has never been before.
First one foot, then the other, stresses are erased.
A day spent basking in nature, my mind’s a better place.
Energy consuming the main drag
at every block I stride through.
People are staring, but I keep the pace.
I take my time as I cherish this moment.
May seem meaningless for most.
But with years gone by this is what I’ve craved.
A call to face it all, if you will.
Seeking out all that I fear most:
to be noticed.
(Poem 6 of Half Marathon)
I wonder,
If I move along slowly
Will I make it
To my destiny on time
Strolling along
In the autumn breeze
The wind
Blowing through my hair
On the side of the creek
A crinkle of leaves
Underneath my feet so bare
I know in my mind
I can’t race against time
I will get there
When I get there.
A wanderer for life
I wander everywhere.
Rebelí
The Necrotizing Narcissist
Within its cage, my heart beats, as our victim’s breast reeks and splits,
Without sympathy we view our living picture, and the wounds spread.
My Dyer-Bolique smirks, lovely eyes awash with icy disdain,
The protagonist, hero in his own mind, grimaces as his lip peels,
Pulses heave on the tide of cowardice, his teeth bared through locked jaw.
Beginnings of a rare satisfaction tremble through me and call to him.
Within our souls our ecstatic spirits quell with our soiled lusts,
Without relief our prey squeals against the trappings of the organism.
My Dyer-Bolique glares into the swamps of my being, fixated.
The protagonist gurgles as the invisible ants flay him alive.
Pulses rip my insides in an explosive bonding with my missing piece,
Beginnings of a tsunami building within as we watch his skinned demise.
Within our chasm, predators feed prey to Beelzebub’s furnace.
Without constraint, without social performance, without care,
My Dyer-Bolique flays the satin cloth from my aching body,
The protagonist of MY story carries his Belle from their lair.
Pulses electrify my long-suffering form, throbbing need for him,
Beginnings of a tasteless covalence, as he fills me beyond comprehension.
Suffering peaks,
Satisfaction fulfilled,
Twin forms becoming one,
The Merging of bodily Mayhem.
Pandemic Exercise
(Hour 6 Half Marathon 2021)
By David Hirsh
After sitting and zooming
For several hours
Several days in a row,
My legs needed a good stretching
I had been sitting too long
And my pulse rate
Needed a little boost
Even though it was
in the middle of the Covid Pandemic of 2020
I decided to dress,
Put on a mask to leave the house
Gather the courage to step outside
These streets I used to jog down these streets
Avoiding the cars
Wearing bright clothing
To make sure I was seen
Now my pulse raced at a much slower speed
Then when I would jog or run
I felt lonely without a car in sight
It could have been night
I could have been dressed in black
I could have been naked
There was no one to see me
Except those faces frozen Hidden behind walls and windows
I went from one block to another
Down the middle of the street
Where cars had roamed
And had honked me to attention
The trees were still green
The flowers were in bloom
Bees buzzed around the flowers
Most of the yards
Were overgrown with grass and dandelions Various insects played among
The grass waving in the breeze
After about an hour
I arrived back home
Took the mail from the box
And went to sit back down
To have a video conference
With several people
Who talked about how much they missed
Leaving their homes.