24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Disease was rife, plants were dying
roots were warping, the soil was crying
Yet the Sunflower stood strong
Her beauty stood tall
She smiled and faced the sunshine through it all
Let us be like the Sunflower and weather the storm
turn away from the shadows
from the break of the dawn.
The Season of the Starlings
Here they come
with purple heads and yellow eyes
flocking and cawing
to empty the feeder
Loud, raucous, pushy birds
they scatter the seeds
leaving no space
for nuthatches and sparrows
I have no love for these invaders
until I see
Father feeding Youngster
great gobs of suet into waiting beaks
a nurturing parent
yesterday is not you.
it’s an arbitrary irrelevant force
that cares only about self-preservation and destruction.
tomorrow isn’t you either.
only today
tomorrow is a ticking time bomb while yesterday
is the code to defuse it.
only be embracing today can you prevent the worst that is yet to come
My O-Town Phase
These are the days
I want to be the
sexiest woman alive.
I know I’m playing with fire,
suddenly.
This shy girl, sensitive
chasing after you.
I’ll skydive into your liquid dreams
every six seconds even if I’m buried alive.
This is the right kind of wrong,
Baby I would because we fit together,
in one heart.
So take me under to fill your empty space.
I’m craving you after the lights are off.
Giants who have been around the world,
on the way now, you can’t lose.
It’s not shady business,
If love should be a crime
from the damage
I’ll be your favorite girl
comin’ to the rescue.
Don’t rewind, cut the cord
I’m not over easy.
Hello World,
Whatcha gonna do?
I won’t lose
I only dance with you.
I’m a girl like that.
So make her say
I showed her, it’s not over.
Agree to disagree
these lines and circles
are all or nothing,
but all for love.
The painter will show
sometimes love ain’t enough,
girl at the joint
got to go,
so goodnight.
Margarette Wahl
SEASON OF THE WARRIOR
we aren’t afraid to live
we aren’t afraid to die
we know our value
and we know yours, too
where rich men count their money
we find hands and hearts longing for liberty
where poor men cry out their lamentations
we find hearts and hands worn from their labor
where unity is devoured to serve the powerful
we find hungry minds ready for a free life
we know what we’re living for
we know what we’re dying for
we’re coming for your traditions
we’re coming for your forefathers
we are so hungry
we have been starved
we know which hands starved us
we know which hands will latch the locks
we are not afraid to live
we are not afraid to die
we will swarm in your streets. they are our streets.
we will read Baldwin and Chomsky in your cafes.
we will rise up from the asphalt and swell around you
we will not stop until we find a better way than our history
we know what we are living for
we know what we are dying for
we are the warriors of our new season
we are only just beginning to bloom
(Italian sonnet form–I think)
By Sandy Lender
A multitude came crawling up the sandy shore
Only moonlight off’ring light by which to nest
A thousand sets of flapping flippers sought what ground is best
Mighty turtles one by one raked the ground and tore
Digging, ripping, cavities for their eggs to store
And burying again with solid sand their eggs to rest
Left by moonlight, taking up again their ancient quest
The multitude slipped back to Mother Ocean evermore
For such a great arribada
We pray a season of success
Forgive our lack of sentience
For their lovely sonata,
No other redress
Have we but penitence
Color of the day…
Bursting in chaos, smell of freedom,
Burnt blood, smoked streets
Blue against black
dark night ignites
cold heart, death arrives
Fist raise up
Million voices screams as one
feet marching, thumping, running
Ocean of people gasping
singing the same hymn
Freedom has a price
Until life ceases!
Yes, Yeats summed it up
and we didn’t listen.
We seem never to listen.
You know: no convictions, the good
up against the passionate intensity
of the ignorant, etc.
How each hourly travesty is
quickly eclipsed by the next
so memory doesn’t function
as we need it to. Where to begin
to reckon the awful toll greed
and heartlessness
have already accrued? Nothing
sticks. The thefts from the masses
to give to the few, the infants
in cages, the medical equipment
hoarded in a time of plague?
Time to screw our courage and
our memories to a sticking-place.
The murders. The mud slung so far
just runs down our walls.
Pay attention to one day.
Call out the outrageous
with true outrage. No
traction, no action, no
satisfaction. About face.
An angry pandemic explodes throughout the globe.
It leaves havoc wherever it settles.
It destroys lives and dreams.
It injures bodies and kills many who cannot fight
this strange contagion.
Some think this is the Season of the Witch
or the Season of Death that comes along every century
to unfairly eradicate certain populations.
Is it nature, super nature, or a political conspiracy?
Will we ever find out? Will we ever heal?
We must wait for the Season of Love to come.
Season of the Songbird
nestled in the tree by my window
her performance schedule is quite particular
but when the warm wind of a summer evening brushes through her wings,
the neighborhood rendered silent:
flushed-out street lamps and a shade-splattered landscape
she lifts her head and spills dulcet tones into suburbias fuzzy sonic ambience
her repetoire sinks into my recollection of the day and reflects it into the night
I take from it what I can
whats left dissolves into the sunset.