24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Last night howling in my head
like the twist of a knife –
The unsure awkwardness
The tequila soda ramblings
The dancing, sweating, eyes wide open
To the ifs, buts, whys that never end.
But it does, it will.
It all will one day.
So let’s meet again tonight under the stars lest it be our last.
I live in a place that’s quiet, yet outspoken.
I dwell in a space that is a moment unspoken.
It’s a time chosen.
Where the mortgage is paid and
the taxes are free.
Where I seldomly get visitors,
which is fine with me.
I’ll take the cracks in its surface
and appreciate their beauty.
This has been my home.
Where I don’t choose him or them.
Where I chose me.
It’s when I’m alone
and oftentimes at peace.
WELCOMING WOODS
(based on my painting, Welcoming Woods)
The forest beckons me today
to come and wander and weave
my way through paths of sun-speckled, twisted roots
and sheltering boughs
A raven’s shrill call invites me
Deeper,
deeper into his
sacred space
Feathered residents
wary of my presence
cry out
hoots and twitters
coos and shrieks –
Are you friend or foe?
I settle on the stump
of an ancient oak
its rings of life still solid, strong
I close my eyes
Whispering boughs rustle overhead
A gentle breeze kisses my cheek
I inhale
The scent of rich moist earth
and fresh pine fills my senses
My heart rate slows
to the forest’s rhythm
I am one with the life around me
And so it begins or so it ends
Clarity, confusion, chaos
All, on your World View, depends
Your World view depends on all you’ve seen,
What you’ve read, and where you’ve been
Are your roots dug deep in words or planted in
The chaos of sin?
Perhaps your roots yanked up just as fresh growth could begin
–Just as life’s understanding desired to expand,
Perhaps your World view moved no further
Than the three-hundred-sixty degrees to be seen from your
Native soil and the exact spot you where were born
Perhaps wanderlust took you far and wide
Allowing you to cast preconceived, and elder taught ideals aside
Wiring so different for creatives and strategists causing divides,
Healing requires putting opinions aside
Your truth is yours to own, and mine is my own,
The foundation, for which, will one day be known
And the consequences individually we own.
Ralph maintained a humongous
Heap out back.
Not crap. Useful items.
Chaotic to every eye but his.
He could put his finger on
Anything you’d need,
Including an old galvanized trough.
Five-year-old me,
Dropped a glass marble
Into that trough.
It landed with a tink,
Rolled along the bottom,
Randomly,
Making a feeble hollow rumble,
Then stopped.
No one heard but me,
And I quickly lost interest,
Leaving to investigate
Other crannies
Of Ralph’s impressive pile.
POEM 01
My first apartment and me fifty years old with too much stuff for this tiny enclosure. My heart aches for the house, my house that I lavished years and money and love
on. I miss its coziness. But sometimes comfort is so fleeting and useless. I’ve come to relish the solitude of this musty enclave. The quiet is welcomed after twenty years of Justin’s gargling and spitting.
Strangely I can’t think of any precious moments with him on this move-in day. My Ex, there’s no pleasure in such a claim, but marriages fizzle and people give out, give
up and move on.
I thought I’d reside in a plush house, my house, at fifty. Possessions are relinquished, dissolved, so resolute. All the baubles and trinkets gathered through vibrant years
of joy and pain with just a smattering of regret, could not fit into this moldy crumbling building. It smells of years of other people, even with the peeling wallpaper having been replaced.
The tree outside the cloudy paned window has been crippled, painted black to stop its thriving. So nothing thrives here?
Is that the Phoenix perched on the building next to mine? Is it poised to escape the ashes and mount the pale blue sky with thinning clouds to witness the flight? No its
just a metal sculpture of a crane rusted and dead after years of weather and rain.
The bathroom is remarkably bright and white though.; it, will be my refuge.
Endings.
Peace and quiet.
They’re anything but,
The raging storm that breaks through a ship.
They’re the grand culmination that completes your journey.
I would be lying if I ever dared to say to you that,
I hate them with my whole heart.
I adore them so.
I look in the mirror as I lie that,
Endings are just chaos and fire reigning the town,
Bringing the circle to a close.
But a circle does not end,
But a circle does not begin,
Sketching the first dot of the circle.
Mishaps and everyone finding their footing.
I’d be lying if I say that beginnings are only,
Small gasps of surprise and happiness.
They’re taxing and eating through your soul.
They aren’t just the first thing that comes to mind that,
They’re the adrenaline keeping you young.
Leaving your comfort space you call home.
They’re anything but,
Peace and quiet.
Beginnings.
NOW READ IT BACKWARDS! It’s a reverse poem.
~thryaksha
Here’s to getting that last bit
About how we were the better men
Losing not to the dark swell
Of hate and fear
But to the shining goal of being right
Even if we were wrong all along
We were right in our persistent notion
Self-righteous in the face of self-sacrifice
We were better men because we faced fear
Without pause and without care
Without care
We faced death and coughed
Yay it’s a new year time for some new poems!! We will see how many I title XD
Hour 1
Endings
I heard it when they said “hello”
Felt the goodbye waiting in each sound
I tasted it in the tea I drank
The flavor of them leaving
I read it in a letter finished with love
Curved letters and a period to make note
I shouted it in joy before knowing
Sensed something was off but didn’t know