24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
A poem made of emojis?
Emojis?!
Pictures are not words!
How does one make a poem with emojis?
Well I guess that I can try…
It may not look pretty
And it may not make sense,
But here is a poem made of emojis.
If only I could ✍️ like a 🏇.
The 📚 would 🕊️ on and off the shelf.
Amazon would ❤️ 👩.
👩 👩 would read my 📚 at the 🏖️
And 💭 off to 🌴 🌴 🌴.
And 🧑🏼🤝🧑🏻 🧑🏼🤝🧑🏻 🧑🏼🤝🧑🏻 would know 👩 name.
Determined (Brandy Goodman Poem # 11)
What am I going to do?
You’re so determined to move on.
Nothing seems to discourage you
Not even watching your granddaughter grow.
You just want it all to be over,
It’s not that I don’t understand why,
I just don’t want to lose you yet,
You’re still too young to die.
I know it’s selfish of me
But I don’t know what to do,
My world will likely shatter
Everyone knows that to be true.
With all the pain you’re going through
I should be happy with your choice.
You’d be in a much better place,
But I will miss your voice.
I will miss your hugs and kisses
I will miss your warm smile
I will miss all your advice
My hurt will last a while.
I want you to feel better,
I just don’t want you to go.
We have so much more to share,
A mother is something you never outgrow.
bright turquoise water with white soft sand
supplemented with amazing native food.
luxury for those that can buy the land.
so many variations of seafood.
To travel or not to travel
Traveling to understand the world.
comes with a price to see mother nature.
The islands on one side is like a caricature.
on the other, the citizens lack basic needs in hopes of a dream world.
Even if one side lacks a marketing brand
you still got the same land
but it all comes with a price!
This weekend I had time to…
I found this on Pinterest and just had to try…
During quarantine I made all these…
I stayed up all night just to finish reading…
And typed into Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Snapchat:
“I’m so bored.”
I have never been to any such place
that could offer me such luxuries.
Please
Stop sending me your postcards.
[Prompt 11: Write a poem about or set in a place you have never been to.]
A place separate and quiet
From the noise of life
Fluffy pillows and blankets
All smelling nice
Windows of stained glass
Creating a more rosy world
A fireplace and a radio
Simple comforts
An endless supply of tea and cookies
And plenty to read and write
Textures and colors that inspire creativity
And revive me to be the best for my family
I’ve never been to the Azores but they beckon me.
Small, gracious, resplendent, Atlantic archipelago,
fiercely independent, tiny islands of breath-taking
hydrangea-bordering, green meadow, mountain
lacunae, cloud-filled, like hookah puffs adrift, I
breathe your lyrical language in my sleep, ever
since your letter, 38 years ago, when you wrote
“I’m in the Azores, now, telecommunications unit.
Driving the Aston Martin through the Alps would
have to wait until the next furlough, which never
did come. You disappeared–for 35 years–with the
words, “the Azores,” embedded in my loneliness,
a magical place that holds your shadow, my dreams
and our youth, captive on volcanic Terceira, in-
caved in Gruta do natal, where dark secrets glow.
Lembro-me dos açores que nunca vi.
The transformation came so fast
At a warehouse party moving dancing laughing
Shoved and pushed to the floor
Stench of death hit before the ferocious gnawing
Tried flailing
couldn’t move couldn’t grab couldn’t claw – all numb
hands stopped working
Tried screaming
couldn’t speak couldn’t talk couldn’t yell – only gurgle
Neck was broken
Tried to find an exit
couldn’t see couldn’t look couldn’t hear – only smell
Eyes and ears were missing
And then it hit me again
The smell
this time sweet
inviting consuming divine energy
Writhing on the floor next to me – someone familiar
soft and supple
plentiful and easy to swallow
like a wet vein filled marshmallow – delicious
elixir for the dead
Slowly I moved
moaning dragging lumbering
into the night
my skull face beaming in the moon shadow.
There is a place – at least I’ve heard it’s real
where everyone is free to feel
that Life is good.
Where everybody has enough
of clothes and food and other stuff
and Life is good.
Where fair is fair and right is right
and quarrels are settled by reason, not might
and Life is good.
Of course there are problems, but people don’t hate,
and there is much to appreciate
and Life is good.
Where is this place? I’d like to know.
If I knew, you and I would go
where Life is good.
I have dissipated into air.
I smile at sun and shine on dewy blossoms.
I look into horizons of anguish and false smiles of survival
and relish spring breezes – the scent of voodoo rose.
It’s been a long rendez-vu in verdant pastures
of blissful banishment and enchanting streams
of weeping willows’ song.
Ah, swaying again in droplets of vapor
remembering the muse’s words:
“Sweet Angel, revel in the words,
Wander and sow your seeds of ecstasy.”
Had I forgotten?
Had I hardened into gross mass?
Had I frozen into an austere demeanor
producing slavish insolence?
The seasons, that’s it!
Yes, I remember the movement of stars,
and tides and moon’s chanting of rhythms and vibrations!
How sublime!