Hour 18; Prompt 18: Halloween 1989: The Hunch Back of St. Stanislaus

I dressed as Quasimodo one year
Borrowed a port wine blouse from my aunt
Stuffed a pillow over my right shoulder under the blouse
Slapped some crude makeup and cigarette ash on my face
And into the night I crept…well, mostly just walked
I crept when we got close to a house or I came across a group of other
Imps of the night of All Hallows Eve

I had fun
I enjoyed creeping out the uninformed
And squealed in delight when I was recognized
I didn’t care for the store bought jobs
All plastic and whatnot
Absolute fire hazards

No
I was content to steal into the night
Of ghosts, witches, demons, and the odd G.I. Joe
Under guise of my own design
Known or unknown
It was a night to be me
If just for my own amusement

More than just a word (16th hour) Sijo poem & prompt

The warm embraces and secret whispers that surround the two

become more than just happy fancies, when the tend to rendezvous.

Promises of devotion and passion have proven true.

 

Summer Holiday

In one week it’s July the 4
The world is fine, I throw open the doors
Start a celebration of a different kind
Opening the house, heart and mind
Building the life I had dreamed
Long before it was lost to quarantine
Joyous marking of independence
From oppression, from history from poverty’s menace
Finally it would mean something
Beyond the noise of mortars erupting
I’ve had freedom’s riches all my life
Come over and share what’s mine
Tell me of the wrongs and plight
Let you anger burn into the night
It’s but 7 days, so close it would seem
But the personal revolution is but a fantasy
Typed onto the screen

Narrative Holiday Prompt (Hour 18)

Empty apartment,
Winter’s cold creeping through the old windows.
Shadows stain the white walls
like phantom caricatures of demonic company.
Ashtrays filled, scattered dishware,
drinks unfinished with wet, half-consumed cigarettes floating in them.

He threw his coat on and left through the front door.
The hallway of the apartment was chilled, quiet.
When he stepped outside,
the sidewalk was buried beneath a couple of inches of snow.
Crevices of footprints from earlier in the day could still be seen,
yet were disappearing beneath the new accumulation softly falling from the sky.
Is this what he raced home to find?
Is this what he left the celebration of his family for?

The silent streets seemed hollow, ruinous,
as if a plague had suffocated the city.
Traffic lights on the boulevard
still blinking through their color rotations
yet not a single car is on the road tonight.
Its Christmas Eve, most people have somewhere to be
and are settled in for the night.

When the bars close at 1:00 am,
the tramps will disperse, the sinners, the blasphemous,
The black sheep and their junkie lovers.
She couldn’t wait for me?
There’s still a couple of hours left before the last call.
Where is she?

When Dreams Feel Real

When Dreams Feel Real:

A Christmas Story

 

When I was six, Santa came

in the darkened house as I slept

on the frontroom couch. He strolled

in the door and passed as I stared,

pretending to sleep as I watched

his velvet shimmer and his sack

shake with each ginger step.

When he looked for Eddie, asleep

in our bunk beds, I ran

to Mommy’s room and spilled

his secret. She snarled

and said, Go back to bed.

I did, but never forgot.

A Nostalgic Walk Down Memory Lane

A Nostalgic Walk Down Memory Lane

It doesn’t take a long time
for new things to age.
Some songs are like that.
But I’m not the kind that
discards songs, because
I do not believe in the death
of what gives life at a point,
even at the birth of new ones.
As a boy, I loved to be sent
on errands at night, because
I’d be permitted to go along
with compound cassette tape,
giving light to torch my way
through darkness and lonely paths.
But I wouldn’t put on the light
to save enough battery
to jam my grief with old reggaes.
I’d jump and jump and jump
so much that sometimes,
I don’t feel like going back home.

hands in my hair

I wake up
I ruffle my hair
It has been growing out
Since my last hair cut
In late January

I stand
I ruffle my hair
Sleeping has caused it
To stick out at weird angles
And resemble Beakman’s doo

I put my bagel in the toaster oven
I ruffle my hair
While waiting for my bagel to toast
And sigh in impatience
And hunger

I sit down at my tablet
I ruffle my hair
Trying to shake the sleep from my brain
Remember what it is I need to do today
And ease sensory needs

I lean over my work
Both hands ruffle my hair
In times of stress
My fingers rub through my mane
Trying to will my brain into calm

I sit in my recliner
I ruffle my hair slowly
With one hand
At last
My brain can rest

I turn out the lights
I ruffle my hair
Lay down on the pillows
Burrow into the covers
And finally fall asleep

hour 18 poem

Heat

The wind is blowing down the draw

The man he walked into its maw

Heat Source

 

It blew hard, he tried to withdraw

He could not move even when he clawed

Heat Wave

 

The heat built up as he foresaw

It was so hot he was in awe

Heat Stroke

Pain

The earth endures the chaos of pain
Across age groups
Across racial, class and religious lines…
The pain of sickness
The pain of living
The pain of parting from a loved one
Pain of death
The pain of change
The pain of living
The pain of endurance
We are wired to manage pain
Let your pain heal…

poetry of life long spirit

a poem speaks of life

loving encounters day by day

ensuring life coveted moments

 

seen every life echoes

moving in the heart for new haven

sequence for reference

still much deepens

 

question unending as mere human fellow

norms received for order

still life question endangers anew

conflicts arising in the human events

 

what is then humanity?

 

Poem # 17