24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
“Nothing Like today”
A tune of morning bloom,
Next to you, Inside the room.
The smell of perfume grasp on our sheets,
And I laugh, as you entangle my feet.
The breeze echo like luluby,
And your laugh sounds like mine.
As each sounds combine to create a
melody.
A sound of unforgotten story.
We end each day with sunsets view,
As I am leaning towards the soft you.
It’s a mystery of life, not yet foretold.
You’re sweet touch as we walk by the road.
(C) M. E. Flores
The relaxing sound of the cat’s purr, feeling the vibrations on my skin,
The weight of the dog laying against my leg.
The warm cozy weight blanket soothing the day away.
The soft sleep music emitting via the radio.
My eyes close. The day fades.
The firelight glows amid the crackling embers and wispy gray smoke fills the cool, damp autumn air. My love hums a familiar ditty about our life together and as I look at the lines growing on his tired, aging face, the sight of a few stray white hairs catch my eye. I would trade it for nothing. Our daughter squeals as the embers glow and crackle. Being older with a toddler is not for the birds, but I would not change an iota of it. It is worth every age line to make a wonderful life of memories for her.
As the day concludes, we cuddle beneath the stars as meteors streak by overhead. This leaves us to ponder where they will go or how far they will travel. Thoughts that will be continued on another day of outdoor memories.
The gentle sway of the boat,
Cool skin warmed by the sun
As it dries off the last swim of the day.
Chilled champagne skids down my throat, mixing with the salt left by the ocean on my lips.
My neck is arched as I gaze in wonderment at the sky changing over time, yet all at once from brilliant blue to a radiant orange.
Life well lived.
Life in balance.
Acceptance without judgement.
Love.
Peace.
More like a hard day’s year
with almost 120,000 gone,
the rest of us feel barely alive ourselves
whether it’s gratifying or just plain irksome.
where do we go from here?
picks ourselves up, dust ourselves off and just pretend everything’s hunky dory.
maybe you’ll meet a girl or your end.
it’s so easy to look on the bright side when it’s the only one in existence and vice versa.
but somehow we’ve ended up in a bile of our own creation that’s just begging to boil over the top.
i refuse to sit here and tell you the light at the end of the tunnel is just days away from shining down on us but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t reach for it.
because we will bask in the warm glow of perspicacity.
it’s only a matter of time.
and as so many voices across the world cry out in anguish and hope,
the rest of us just have one simple question: when exactly does the winning
start?
Will my voice matter?
is every writer’s quest
question, coping quicksand
not the sound as it sputters
and reverberates into the throat
but the worry
hovering at the back of self-
importance. Choked by diffidence,
I’m supposed to write
for myself
because I’m called to words
like a moth to flame
and if the page ignites
ink burns
cinders remain
lining the annals of history.
Will my combustion resonate?
is every poet’s plight
ashen and disintegrating
like remnants
whispering
in
the
wind.
Haiku
Whiffs of floral scent
fills the twilight garden path
A bird sings her song.
They say to greet Death as an old friend, but when we should greet everyone as equals before Death’s kiss. It took a war and it took a movement but still we don’t see people as equals.When they ask for more, they were moved and now it is needed for change to keep the balance restored.Balance and change is nature made and it has to be restored. But, at what cost? Balance and change is like a double sided sword and it can cut twice. It doesn’t take a nation to go from segregation to a warlord to restore the balance that needs to be explored and be recorded. To move a nation, we should look at everyone as equals and not focus on the sequels of our history as people.
Some days are like homes
Spewing bombs at the whole world,
Unable to blow.
My little finger
Is ashamed to write out pain
Or paint grief in blood.
I sometimes want to
Strap myself in ecstasy
Without any brakes.