24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Spring Kigo, Haiki Set Ann WJ White Nesting birds arrive. Singing bright lullabies near, Filling the green trees. Old frogs leap and call, Turning spring dances in air, Waiting for lovers. Spring's optimism Decorates blooming plants and Leaf kaleidoscopes Storms lash out above, Elaborate referees Washing winter away.
photo credit: jeymonde, London 2019
PHYSICS FOR CATS BOP A late hour 6 poem
The world is topsy-turvy, unhinged.
And what if I no longer have a furry black cat
to caress & cuddle in this groundless time
of staying at home, small social bubbles
ear-looped cloth masks, and now, perhaps
safely six-feet socializing under the trees.
The cat’s on a trolley and can’t get off.
An upheaved time of strife and inequities.
What if I live alone and my social bubble
is exactly one in three? – me, myself, and I – and
everyone I know and love on Zoom
or FaceTime. And why would cats
need physics? Cats can solve problems.
They’re already masters of space — leaping
from the window sill, to the floor and back.
Yes, perhaps I need to adopt a cat –
a fond-of-leaping Abyssinian; a curious
tabby; a loud-mouthed Siamese, or
a muscular Ragdoll that loves to go limp.
Maybe then I can learn physics and solve
what needs fixing – right now!
The cat’s on a trolley and can’t get off.
Season of waiting,
patiently serving my time
Waiting for reason.
Still meditating,
now plotting personal schemes
and most public rhymes.
“Waiting for Godot”!
going with the ebb and flow,
but not in the know.
Meanwhile, waking up
to an eternal “Groundhog’s
Day” each summer morn.
There’s a mirror in every child’s bedroom
every now and then, when you turn on the light
a small flash pierces through the emergence
– blink and miss it –
some catch a glimpse of it, some never do,
most don’t know what it is
excuses made to ignore what we already know
– an old trick of the eye, headache –
when your parents tuck you in and turn off your light
the split second is all it takes for the unfortunate ones
as a flash rises from the mirror and looms above you
– where are you? –
Plants go through cycles,
each different and unique.
Some grow, fall, regrow;
some die after their peak.
I see new life in
the cactus on my shelf.
I think it’s time to
do some growing myself.
I do not know my
flower, I hope it thrives,
surrounded by light
and pollinator hives.
I may bloom in pink,
blue, yellow, purple, white.
Whatever color,
for me it will be right.
I must stretch my leaves
to reach that vibrant sun.
It won’t be easy,
but growing must be done.
When I vacuum, I sing
worship songs, praises to God, wishes
for another life, a life that won’t fall
apart with every turn, every look,
every glance in another direction.
A better life. I sing for mercy,
for love that swells, swirls the heart
until it bursts, leaving me a fragment
of who I was, who I am, a flame
of who I will be. With the rumble,
all I have to do is sing.
Season of the Poets
They came together on a summer day,
tumbling and rambling across the screen.
They followed prompts or ignored prompts,
rhymed or roamed free.
They meshed and melded,
caromed and caroused.
An odd moment this Season of the Poets.
No commonality among them — not of time nor temperature,
nor interest nor age.
Still they came.
They came for the words and the emotions and the challenge.
On this day-long season, poets flourished.
They relished and resented each creative hour.
Hope, despair, memory, fantasy,
whimsy, humor, truth, and irony
marked the season.
The poets owned the season.
The season owned the poets.
Magical, frustrating, exhausting, exhilarating.
Poets celebrate this sacred season in silence,
exploring thoughts, seizing words,
decorating isolation with ideas.
An when the day is done
and the season is over
they emerge with renewed energy
ready to revisit
the Season of the Poets.
Silly summer sweaty season
Jamming full the plane
Somewhere hot, don’t care a jot
That each year is just the same
Swarming off the aircraft
Sweating something chronic
Tattoo Tank-top up the front
Screaming “Where’s Mummies Vodka Tonic”
A promising start you will agree
A chance for British Envoys
To Explore the world Cos back home its cold
So we’re fleeing it in convoys
Found the bags but bloody hell
The Booking infos vanished
Could ask for help, but probably not
We’re British, Don’t speak Spanish
A bulging, burping peeling horde
Of lads bags tramps and louts
With fags in hand, ill fitting tops
With tits that’ve fallen out
A whole new world we could explore
But the food is weird and smelly
SO what did you do in Lanzerote
I fucking watched the telly
Football, Tennis, even golf
In the bars its always on
It may have escaped your notice
Back home is also shown
Why drag your ass from out your chair
And inflict yourself on Spain
If you only sit in bars, swear at football stars
Then Fuck off home again
But when the sun goes down
Screaming kids gone off to sleep
You get your party outfit on
It’s enough to make you weep
But I hate to burst your bubble
I’d hate to think this wrecks it
But you can’t afford the drink here now
Cos you voted bloody Brexit
So climb back on the aeroplane
Your skin red, charred to death
Next year, I think we’ll stay at home
And ruin Blackpools week instead
burned it down down & more down
till the fire couldnt eat anymore till the fire couldnt
breathe now its all gone— my life
is all gone
am I not supposed to weep grieve
it now that I stand in the smoking steaming
earth of what-now of never-been-to-this-place-before— so many deaths
preceded this place I now find myself
big death little death in-between deaths
this one little death went to the market
this death wants roast beef
& lets not forget the little death that howled
Itself all the way to a home-not-yet-in-existence
across an entire continent she drove
to make-find
Ray of sunlight slithering on my window
Cuddle my pillow
Buying a few minutes
hugging my monster a little bit
stretching arms and legs
bowing head in bent knees
whisper a prayer under my warm breath
steaming coffee and crunchy french toast
underneath the canopy of azure skies
bird singing their morning praises
my hairy best friend dancing on my feet
coffee in hand and favorite book
serenity smells good.