24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
To spell, a childhood knowledge token we passed around:
em eye ess ess eye ess ess eye pee pee eye
Pine, I learned.
A drive with a local:
“that one’s black”
“that one’s black”
the houses are white, yellow, brick
Did he like me
sweet tea accent
did he think of me
cult of boys
I scooped a baggie of red dirt
to prove it existed
to someone.
whenever the morning might be.
Morning is all the time when
“good morning” is your favorite roast.
pages.
flipped. flipped. flipped. read from someone inspirational
and far better with words than I.
Pages.
Scribbled.
Filled with my own hand.
If there’s anything I’m thankful for it’s full journals with
cool lookin’ handwriting.
from here it could go two ways:
one: sex. If it hadn’t been handled already
or even if it had.
Wild. Playful. Feral. Chaotic. then maybe food.
or more pages.
two: fighting which probably hadn’t been handled already
Feral. Chaotic. Wild.
Playful.
Not much difference you see. then maybe food.
or more pages.
on a perfect day. The latter then the former.
Rough. Primal. then
Soft. Primal.
Notice how when it’s perfect, money doesn’t make an appearance.
Look closely, you’ll see,
A lovely thought crawling here
Colors red and black.
These small things bring joy;
Do not spread your wings and leave:
Stay a bit longer.
3:00 PM Poem
Elizabeth Wingert
Season of the storm
Winter dropped its final flakes
Joy and freedom
On the mountain
As the droplets
Multipled to the East
Exponents arriving via jumbo jets
Unbreakable cycle of modernity
Tender new leaves and flowers
Woke to none to behold
The new season warmed a lonely outside
Until it boiled over
Weeks and centuries
Frustration
Agitation
Oppression
Succession
Change drew some near
Others recoiled in fear
Or brandished their insolence
Like a twister up the alley
Spring ravaged
Waking, shaking the senses
Are we to the edge of the tempest?
Or winding in its eye
one species, classified
homo sapiens for centuries,
longer.
no longer.
species broken, fractured.
irreversibly, irreparably split.
the only reasonable explanation.
how else to understand
the great divide
among the peoples of the earth?
the crack’s jagged edge
cuts not along color or race,
language or nations.
this division runs deeper.
deep through the hearts, the very souls
of humankind.
compassion versus criticism,
empathy against blame,
respect for knowledge wars with willful ignorance.
collective responsibility
personal responsibility
culpability?
love for others, love for earth, love of self, love of the almighty dollar.
greed and selfishness take on generosity.
altruism. narcissism. oblivion.
love. hate.
me. you.
no longer one.
no longer us.
the one becomes two.
(Hour 7, Poetry Marathon 2020. Prompt: Title a poem “Season of the ____________.”)
A contagion of stupidity
Infected Ogmore-by-Sea
An intellect-free tragedy
Played out in Cymru –
Elsewhere a total of five revellers were stabbed with knives
Ending their wait for a second spike
As impatience reaches new highs
And people find new ways to risk their lives.
Meanwhile, on the Isle of Sheppey
A gathering of far too many
Partied their way into a considerable mess,
Forgetting their cares and the NHS.
Now for the News where you are.
Stars in the sky are mirrored on the waters below that float a single solitary boat. Mountains transposed hold up two sides of the page. I do not lay adrift on a canoe sailing into an abyss. I am no Ophelia from Othello. Flowers adorn my hair and are as beautiful as the thoughts that are dripping from my temple where curls fall as natural as gravity. I am nowhere in sight unless you see the light that illuminates my being. Are you open to a new way of seeing? I am like the trees on the earth, more plentiful than the stars that line the milky way even though you can’t see me. I am a magnet and my light is being led to the sunshine in the distance. We two are one in the same.
I have, as it were, never gardened in clay soil,
Never tried to dig through pugs the size of Volkswagens,
But here I stand, pitchfork bowing, three broken shovels
And no end in sight.
It is good for me, this tenacious editing of sand and seeds,
Watering, hoeing, mourning losses and waiting for rain.
Never knowing whether the wind is bringing lightning or light,
Or driving me inside.
My dry soul, clay and waterless, has seen better days;
Arable days of tilth and tenderness,
When I stood, unbowed, seasoned with salt and liveliness;
Now merely the decrease of days.
When dry leaves will crumble.
When bitter winds will whine.
When harvest is over.
No covering of snow. No melting spring.
When seasons and seasoning lay quiet.
“Here she lies, a well-seasoned gardener.”
Shhhh!
Not yet.
We are but tinsels of opportunity,
waiting for the right occasion.
There is taking risk,
and there is being risky with an unguided attempt.
Change befalls those ready
for the transformation.
So we wait.
Days,
weeks,
months,
years.
For him,
for her,
for ourselves.
The Now is not yet as we want it,
but the air in our lungs fails to deliver a pulse.
So we wait.
Stillness reveals our pattern.
A deep self reflection
brings a change in the currents of our perceptions.
We wait, we are still,
and yet something is happening.
Puzzling truth dawns eventually,
that it was time well spent.
Crouched in the dark, stats flicker
In an out, rolling damage,
click clack the dice fall,
skeletons clatter on paper shadows
and ink dreams follow a party.
Dragons, elves, queens and kings
all fall to my rule.
With a strum of my strings
and a bonus action plays,
I will fuck a god with a roll of dice.