24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Congratulations
Its a poem
24 of them actually
Its a time for words
Phrases
Tumble down terror
I shall write
I shall eat
I shall poet
I shall bring these little snippets
Into the world
This cold harsh world
I shall pull it out
I shall put it down
I shall offer it up
I will slap it silly
Slimy, brilliant
Bold and brittle
Congratulations
Its a poem
23 more to go
Here we are, June 26th, 2021!! Time to start and tech monsters already showing up. No matter, we forge ahead. My name is Kathleen Kidder, although I use Katie, Kat, or Kathy online. May it inspire us, refresh us, and deepen our perspective on the world we now live in. Best wishes to all.
I find myself,
watching….the clock….the door….
listening…for a heartbeat…a breath….
but the silence is defening…
the memory of life, fades
joy, slips from my fingers
love flits
hunger moans,
and in another world you hold loves cold hand.
(for hour 1—something ending)
So Small
Too fragile
Too soon
Softness without structure enough
With hollow hope
With imperfect sigh
Too small
To inflict such sorrow
There once was a man from Nantucket
His roses were red, his violets were blue
He went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
And everywhere he went: lambs followed
He had a great fall
He had a great summer
But when he fell off the wall
That was a huge bummer
Poor Yorick!
With every passing second
And racing of the clock
I take a quick leak at the back of the house.
Into my bed, I jump once again.
I’m so tired of counting sheep;
And every passing look is caught by abstract images
Scaring me into an eye shut.
Left turn to
Right turn into
The warmth of my own perspiration.
Like the blow to the soft spot of Goliath,
I take a hit from nothingness.
Next thing I realise, are my eyes
Plagued by a bright light.
It was night two seconds ago.
Where am I now?
Love heals the wounds of loneliness.
For the first time…
I have considered not even starting-
Wait. That is a lie.
At the very least, I should be practicing honesty.
I have thought about not starting a gazillion times in my life.
I am fabulously great at not starting.
Not starting would make an excellent book.
But it would never be read, because it would never be written.
Because I am smitten by not startin.
The hour is here.
Time to get my butt in gear…
But, not for the first time,
I question the legitimacy-
Wonder at the failure rate-
And think I simply won’t pick up my pen and start to write…
But once again, I hear the echoes of my childhood-
Reminding me that I’ve got to be better than them.
Thus, I find myself…
starting again.
Hour 1 – 2021 Poetry Half Marathon
The light rolls in like thunder
on a night when crows rest
nervously on electric wires
just below the tree lines.
I look west – the direction of the sun plummeting into an envelope
of spring vegetation
and early darkness.
As expected, the trees are lined up
like soldiers beyond the clearing,
meeting this fresh spring sunset
in it’s tendrils climbing toward sunshine.
The weather is already teasing us
with daytime warmth,
though the nights are painted on a cool,
sometimes damp tapestry.
Soon, the shoots, sparsely bursting
through gnarled limbs and brush,
will turn into leaves unfurling
in the tender spring sunshine.
There are
hundreds of miles between us.
Fourteen hours flying.
Six hours sleeping,
Three hours worrying,
two hours waiting in a trammeled transit
five steps waiting
three minutes running
and one more step closer, one more moment closer
to the last flight to you and our lives, now boarding.