Phoenix Unfinished
Hope rose from embers,
shook the ashes from its wings,
to challenge defeat.
24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
What once was, has gone. Only hopelessness remains. Will it ever be found, no one knows. Seems like a lifetime ago and yet yesterday still. How sweet it was and bitter now. The Love of you, the Love for you.
Michellia Wilson
Poetry Marathon 2021 – Hour 2 of 12
THE MUSIC SAID I COULD
The knurled round knob proved to be easier to turn than I imagined.
The dial with a red pointer oscillating left, then right…
and then it happened…
The sadness I had bottled up for weeks ignited when the drum riffs began…
Over old scratchy speakers…
Old music player..
Old music,
Old person listening…
I am one of those people who will make it necessary to ban weapons from all the mentally ill…
’cause those songs create my own insane brand of checks and balances;
the outcome is always –
I am less than equal.
In an equally insane society, the weak must be eradicated.
Ask the painfully thin humans
Issues blue striped pajamas,
They we’re deemed less than…
I am ready. The music told me so.
I see this ending before it starts.
My thumb hurts already.
Probably need surgery
find out next week.
Don’t worry, I’m in it for 12 hours.
I’m here to write and discover.
This is such a wonderful experience.
I don’t even tell my family,
less chance they will find something for me to do.
My husband and son are working (carpenters)
My daughter is house and dog sitting
So I am home with our cat,
but my muse is missing.
Goes on by silver days of the years
Where birds do fly hummingbirds across the sky into the air of clouds.
Grand union where heaven with its dwellings places they triggle the alarms of each gates with there wings of Ebony.
Humble gliding like an ant on the ground crawling and hurdling together around the garden.
Piano sounds of whistling this beautiful tone.
They Sounders into your ears amazing silver days and midnights of nocturnal owls to see.
Slamming
the door
in my
face,
she said
nothing.
That
should’ve
told me
everything.
Where will I be when I am not
here
in this light
in these days?
Will I have done enough
here
with this heart
with these hands?
What imprint will I leave
here
on this family
on these loved ones?
If time has no end,
Will I?
“Are you going out for your mom’s birthday?”
It was a question.
The question.
Last question.
The end came long before.
It was triplets screaming
Fists POUNDING
Faces red
While he scrolled his
Phone.
Forgetting a weekend class,
He heard about 20 times
Flowed in a stream
Where the ripples always
Washed up
Dirty dishes
Forgotten trash
Unchanged diapers.
Such a stream reeks.
Eventually,
Everyone will move.
No one needs 6 kids alone.
But no one needs a
Person watching Netflix,
Toddlers running,
Tearing into the fridge,
Ripping down the shower curtain.
Netflix
Unpaused.
If he crawls on my body
After never touching me
With a brush of the hand
Or slight lip glance
It makes my skin tighten
And my body roll away.
He won’t leave,
On this day
When he mistook my mom’s birthday
For a weekend class.
He would do nothing either way.
Netflix
Cell phone
Napping.
Toss the coin.
But I will leave.
Hopefully.
After class.
After dinner.
Hopefully.
Soon.
The golden hills of California burn red with wildfires. Raging across the landscape, consuming all in its path. The flames swallow up wildlife, leaving behind scorched scenes of devastation; still smoking, blackened as a fish on a Cajun grill. Eventually, life springs back as flora and fauna find a foothold in the wake of destruction. Until the next time.