24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Tiger, Tiger flame thrower!
Red stripped constellations–
fireworks: evergreen and deciduous.
You question the ghost man?
Take care, and watch the eye roll.
Then open your mouth, for it’s
yea big…the scream that will follow–
erupting from far back, fathomless.
It’s a revolution, you know.
I brush my lips against my wife’s,
my whiskers tickling her nose;
and wish her a sweet goodnight.
I grab the awkward, jock-strap, polygon of my breathing-mask,
CPAP – continuous positive airway pressure,
stretch the bands until it cups my mouth and nose and latch it on.
A makeshift facehugger of medical plastics, its tail leading off
to a bedside contraption filled with distilled water,
rather than coiling my throat.
My hand searches, past pillow and tube, for my eye mask,
Molded microfiber, pillow-soft, hypoallergenic, light-proof,
pull the single strap across the web of my CPAP’s bands
drawing the eldritch sigil that’s come to mean “sleep”.
Three generations ago, my great-grandfathers curled down
under homemade quilts in crowded homes where “heating” was a luxury.
Further back still, generation upon generation made due
with straw mats in houses of wood or sod,
flies and fleas and children for bedmates;
windows of glass were for churches and kings
And hard-footed progenitors collapsed under the revolving stars,
wrapped in the furs of beasts they’d hunted,
the fading coals of their fires at their backs.
The kiss is the only part they’d recognize.
I don’t know how to write love poems (anymore)
I wanted new love to become my muse
The way she became part of my healing
Balm
Warm
Safer than I knew before
But my last muse took something quintessential
Her duality was tricky
Simply cure for her own poison
She gave me back my words
By reaching down my throat
Intubating me to breathe poetry again
But the barbs embedded in the process
Ripped through heart muscle when she snatched her arm back
Scratching me raw as she withdrew her love
Maiming my tongue leaving bloody streaks
Yes
I can still breathe
But how can I ever speak poetry in love again
The wounds still twinge
From the current protest, without diminishing its value.
Every Life Matters, should be the chant anew.
Collateral damage should not be applied to any life.
Upliftment of each other, we must strive.
A mother who gives birth to a child stillborn,
A child who loses his father in a land war torn.
A father who has to bury his youthful son, murdered.
To somebody or the other, every life mattered.
To quote a Zen proverb, so apt:
” One falling leaf, is just not one leaf,
it means the whole autumn.
Hence one falling life, is not just a loss to a family,
it is a loss to the entire humanity.
A tiger! Yes, a tiger! I saw it running from an explosive forest fire.
Flames engulfed trees fir and round, snowy branches and all couldn’t escape its ire.
A voice shouted “Can you help me?”, I turned to see a waving ghost and couldn’t believe my eyes.
It reached for me and I screamed and ran to the left then right but I could still hear its cries.
GERANIUMS (SEASON OF SILLINESS, TAKE TWO)
The geraniums are bold.
They are going for a walk.
Where to? Who knows –
I’ll have to follow.
Unlike Andrew Cotter’s dogs
they don’t Zoom. At least
not with me. Do they Zoom
with you?
If so, could you give them a
message? The downstairs neighbors
say they are heavy-footed – too red.
Could they tone it down
the next time they go out?
Much appreciated.
Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,
in the forest – poachers delight!
Such is the ferocious feline’s plight,
out-gunned, out-numbered, out of sight.
What immortal hand or eye,
could Orion’s intent defy!
Trapped in wire, a caged cry,
challenge my perceptions sensory.
Did you mean what you said
in that text I just read?
all those thumbs down
a run of smirks and frowns
I think emojis are a brain fart
when I can’t create art
or I can’t find the words
these tiny pictures are absurd
translate emojis – say what?
I oughta give this prompt the boot
but instead I’ll cut this short
without an emoji or snide retort.
– Sandra Johnson