24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Steady Hands
The ball, she rolls, around and ‘round,
Whirring through the gates and chutes.
Buzzers and lights flash bout trying to distract.
Focus cannot be sheared like electric sheep
As man versus machine becomes the war,
Each slap of the sides of the box, increasing score.
The numbers only matter slightly
There’s no true prize to be won in this battle,
Except for the possibility of another game.
Depositories
some homes have no closets. everything is piled upon the furniture or floors.
tossed and scattered, old mixing with new and no boundaries or labels as to whom it belongs.
chaotic seasonings, where things can be hidden in plain sight.
some hearts are rife with hundreds of tiny closet doors, like the tiny shutters
on rocks in Costa Rica, night-time bugs shut quickly so as not to be eaten.
a play space, a safe space, a dark prison. the silent walls are indifferent to one’s plight.
depositories of memories, secrets, kind or evil, but ever our own. forming our world
or at least our perception of it. go back and sweep the detritus clean. scrub the walls.
what once was can never be reclaimed. plant new seeds in the fertile soil of today.
HOUR 10
THE WALK
I am not a great walker,
I park as close to destinations as possible.
So when I heard about the
39-mile Marathon Walk
I laughed.
But I reconsidered.
It was the Avon Walk for Breast cancer –worthy cause,
and I was a researcher at a cancer center.
I was pre-diabetic and my doctor would be pleased.
The walk was two days,
26 miles in the first day
13 on second.
There was also a half-marathon
(sounds familiar?)
But I decided, in for a penny
in for a pound.
The only BIG fly-in-the ointment?
Each participant had to put in
$1800 to walk!
I first inveigled a friend to join me,
And against her better judgement,
she did.
Then I charted a plan.
We visited organized clinics.
For walk, feet, shoes and hydration.
Then a plan to train.
We started with 2 miles the first week,
and increased by two more every weeks.
We learnt to stretch from YouTube.
And splurged on the best walking shoes,
which we never regretted.
We trained in our new shoes
to break them in.
Our walk in DC was in May.
So we started training in February.
It was cold, still snowing
and brutal, but we persevered.
We walked on the road.
The park trails were filled with women
with staring eyes,
and men who made our blood
run cold.
In between, we sent begging letters
to family, friends and acquaintances,
no one was spared.
As the training miles increased,
the weather improved
the winter inhabitants in the park
were replaced by serious joggers,
dog walkers and rude bicyclists.
But we enjoyed the walks.
in two months we could easily cover
18 miles.
But money was our constant worry.
Thankfully cancer survivors and families
donated generously.
Some gave to get rid of us.
The parks were full of bright green buds
and saplings and walking became
a real pleasure.
Two weeks before the walk,
we did the last walk of 24 miles,
and rested.
We had trained so well
for our first marathon!
The actual two-day walk
was a breeze.
The comradery, enthusiasm and
fever-pitch excitement,
at the starting point was astonishing.
Every two miles was a toilet, water and snack break.
Whatever else was needed, the women had.
We couldn’t help congratulating ourselves,
when many stronger women and even men,
couldn’t complete the walk.
We did not have a single injury
or after effects.
(We did a total of seven marathons)
If it isn’t one thing
it’s something else.
Or at least it’s something,
but it could be nothing.
All the glitters is not always gold
Sometimes its glitter.
Or sparkles.
Or even fool’s gold.
Like cubic zirconia.
It shines like a diamond.
You don’t cry when you lose one.
But well, the real diamond is nice.
Despite the efforts to get them
Never mind. Slavery sucks.
But so does a cubic zirconia.
when you are told it’s a diamond.
It’s always something.
Some way of saying to us,
what we think matters.
It doesn’t really.
They are just things.
But it’s always something,
isn’t it?
Up with the sun;
to bed with the chickens.
Days rush by,
Calendar quickens.
I’m sitting around,
getting older than dirt.
I can’t write this poem
because I don’t work.
My ‘profession’ you ask,
is it not ‘God is Good’?
He provides all I need,
I could want, ever would.
And when at close of my tombstone date,
I won’t say goodbye; I’ll just walk through the gate.
I memorized the
excitement in your eyes
As the incandescent greens,
reds, and glittering golds
Lit the plaza from
the Americana Christmas tree
My first instance of
love for you
Where I had faith
that we would both
stay awhile
I basked in the unevenness
of the trolly tracks
Remembering the exchange of
warmth from my hand to your back
As the brass quartet
crooned their carols
who perched themselves right
outside the bookstore
we now frequent
Still about eight poems behind but I’m enjoying this creative process of quick writes to catch up.
Hour 3
Every library I have ever been in
Has held more love than any other holy place
Each book asking to be cared about
And each story carrying love
Each story time filled with new love of words
And each bag filled with love on the way out
I stare straight ahead reluctant.
I know I should follow the lines,
But my heart is telling me to go off course.
Create my own path.
The choices in life are not always black and white,
We need to learn it is okay to zig-zag.
What is so wrong if we do?
Will the world stop?
Will life cease to exist?
No.
On the contrary.
It will be better.
It will reign with beauty,
Ooze with style.
It will have color and distinction,
Drenched in seductive suggestion.
All because creative minds made their own paths.
Image Courtesy of Pixabay
In the world of freelance, we wage a wordy war,
With laptops as our weapons, we’re battling galore,
From coffee shops to couches, our offices on the roam,
We’re the sultans of syntax, in our linguistic home.
With deadlines as our drivers, we type away in glee,
Juggling multiple projects, like a caffeinated spree,
Our clients, oh so varied, from tech geeks to romance,
We scribble their dreams, in a wild wordy dance.
But don’t be fooled by glamour, it’s not all fancy flair,
There’s writer’s block to conquer, and blank screens to stare,
And when payday comes around, oh the thrill, the suspense,
Will our invoices get paid, or vanish, hence?
Yet despite the ups and downs, we persevere and jest,
For in this freelance journey, we find a quirky zest,
We’re wordsmiths and storytellers, in this wacky writing scheme,
With pens as our swords, we chase the writer’s dream!
Antoinette LeRoux © 2023
There are days I do not write a single poem
quietly measuring my worth
in affidavits I have carefully drafted
the words to wound or give relief.
The seriousness of being a lawyer
Is not to be taken with a pinch of salt
We march about the corridor
With a stride that defies belief.
Like penguins in our black and white
Serious faces and severe hairstyles
Full of self-imposed importance
We hum and move as bees.
We’re out to change the world
For the better, one case at a time.
A higher calling, a professional…
Wait, have you paid my fees?