24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I
Dreams of cattle in my room
As I wake before the dawn
I see my breath form vapour clouds
And slink downstairs to put my clothes on
II
It’s warmer near the living room fire
Yet cool enough I do not tarry
I get changed behind the couch
Hiding from TV Anchor Norm Perry
III
Stoke the stove to heat the water
Breakfast must be skipped today
Time to search the neighbourhood
For the cows that got away
Short bread cookie tin
Planting the azalea
She dug up cow bones
The marrow rotting
In to the earth
Rinsed in the sink
Hoping to impress
Her grandsons
A forensic moment
Placing the bones
In an old cookie tin
Tempted to dig again
Baked a pie instead
Glancing at the tin
The old woman smiled
One day a good place
To keep my ashes
TobeTT # 21
Deep into the canyon, the sun drove its fading light
Between the gathered concrete walls it reached, like some child stretching behind the sofa to get a long-loved toy that has slipped just too far. An inch just too far…
She nestled in the murky dawn,
Shivering.
The night had curtained joy so long,
Lingering.
The cold wind, merciless,
Whistling.
The stars, her only warmth,
Twinklling.
Frigid fingers ‘round her nest,
Icicling.
The air, itself, held bite,
Prickling.
Many passed her desperate state,
Not noticing.
No comfort came.
But dimly breathed the sun…
Despite the darkness all around
She knew that night was nearly done.
Repelling thoughts of pointlessness, she stirred,
Lifting notes to meet the dawning hope,
There amidst the frigid winter deep,
Her bare-remembered melody of spring.
Calling things that aren’t, as though they were.
Memories of My Mother
Talking to your friend, Mickey and Joan and I watching.
You said to your friend, “I always said when I grew up
I was going to have five children born two years apart,
and they’re all going to have black hair and blue eyes.”
Then, motioning to us, “And there stand three kids with
brown hair and brown eyes!”
It was my first gut punch.
I was six, maybe seven years old.
There’s no need.
It’ll never be noticed on a galloping horse.
The kids were asking you questions about your life.
You said when Mike was born, you and Daddy
really wanted a boy.
And when Moni was born, you both really wanted a girl.
Pointing at me, they asked “What did you want
when she was born?”
It didn’t matter, you said. You already had one of each.
Later, when I said you had embarrassed me, you asked,
What should I have said?
“You should have said you wanted Me!”
And you scoffed and said, “Oh, Posh Tish!”
And walked away.
I remember what street we were on.
We were talking about being safe around men.
I suppose you thought you were giving life advice.
You said you’d rather be killed than raped.
What I heard was that you’d rather I be killed than raped.
You chortled – yes, chortled is the right word –
and said, “There’ll be a war in twenty years.
Lots of baby boys are being born.”
It went all over me, that you would say,
that I was raising my sons
to die young in a war.
How was that even thinkable to you?
I touched a spider, yesterday as he sat on a Mini Cooper BMW, as happy as buzzing bee.
I touched him for good luck.
I thought he was a money spider, not a Union Jack supporter or Brexit negotiator in fact.
I questioned whether he was he a sign of what was to come, perhaps a car we would pursue, or was he only a sign of good luck as he could be nothing less and this was something I knew.
All rights reserved copyright (c) 2019 Natasha Vanover
“Childhood” by Mandy Austin Cook
She’s still there
the little girl with all of the happy comforting memories
the one who climbed with teddy to curl around the cradle of her favorite tree all day
to read Lucy Maud Montgomery’s musings
to experience the liveliness of the friendly forest.
the breeze chuckling through the dogwood blossoms
so it could tease and tousle her sun-kissed hair
you know her. whether you think you do or not
the child from the farm who never met a stranger in an animal
her first love was affectionate little ducklings
she didn’t see the difference between wild or tame
with the support of the sunshine smiling on her cheek
she is from where I draw strength
the girl scout surrounded by trust and campfires
cabins and laughter
because with her magical knack to value the good
and the firey stubbornness that knows she is magical
that young lady can do anything.
The End??
They pop up from the cracks sometimes
The flowers.
Tiny buds, stepped upon by all whose time
Is more important.
They bloom where edges,
People pass
Not noticing the wedges
Of their beauty.
Blooming gardens push their bounds
Where some find mounds
Of dirt appealing.
And those,
I picture for repose
80s music is where it is at and this a fact.
This is not the only thing we have in common.
Each day we linkup in ways that synchronize serendepity at its best.
Where are we now, two years strong?
Do we still get along?
We still share each other‘s thoughts …
Words merge, thoughts serge.
You can see the image I see at the same time.
You verbalize it in unison with me.
It’s uncanny how we do this while driving, sightseeing, or daydreaming.
We are still so in sync, no matter our mood.
Anytime there is ever a shadow of a doubt about us we throw it out, like a rain cloud trying to block out the sun or put a blanket over our sunshine.
We find a way to connect on the same line.
The bond is too strong.
Coincidences are too clear, we are on the same plane.
I am your eyes and you are mine.
All rights reserved copyright (c) 2019 Natasha Vanover