24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Danced with the devils,
Sat with some angels,
And I found my soul.
I found my yesterdays,
And my todays,
Possibly my tomorrow.
Filled with joy,
With each of them.
I sang to the moon,
Cried to the trees,
But I lived.
Online,
Offline,
And a mixture of both,
Created my world,
And brought me to my loves.
What is coming along?
I catch myself thinking that the man
can stop my wonder
I was wrong, but
not confident in my sort
Most of the want
just belongs to money.
I know money.
Once in, you can
swirl the crowd of people,
eyes rapidly searching
for the perfect
I think talent
don’t get far
until you are allowed
luxury
Book: Girl in Pieces by Kathleen Glasgow
you cant rescue me
i’d say to you
well i can show you love
if i knew how to separate
i’d say to you
i dont wanna drag you down
if i knew how to separate
i just wanna keep you safe
i dont wanna drag you down
you cant rescue me
i just wanna keep you safe
well i can show you love
Amanda Potter©: 2019 Poetry Marathon
Technolotree
The trees have Wi-Fi,
but do not give the password out.
The flowers have Bluetooth
which connects them only to the sprouts.
The squirrels keep their iPads
hidden in clefts in hallow trees.
The ducks’ Facebook accounts
are locked with hidden keys.
You knew the forest was peaceful
and seems a gentle lot.
The forest, though, is conspiring,
for they do not wish to be caught.
Joints screaming,
Muscles aching,
Trying for a quiet pain.
An ache that buds instead of blossoms,
Take it today.
Take it tomorrow.
One day,
There’ll be a spill of raven hair on a snow-white pillow,
The brown eyes once vivacious now dulled,
Passing into a restless slumber,
Chasing a quiet pain.
Ghost Karma Episode 1
San Francisco, 1949
Tommy walks down his street
And is mugged by David Dex
Local criminal
Tommy tries to fight
David ran
Ran far away
Ran to his house
Tommy tried to get up
But realised he was dead
Lotus blooms reflect a fountain held by angels. Central Park in spring.
I’ve not been sleeping.
Willing myself to remain in situ, hostage to the factory bell
only confirms that the hours I have are a conceit
of schedules, a yoke I swore I would escape when I prayed to less
flexible gods.
Playing a woman of leisure with no money
isn’t the role I coveted, but, apparently,
it’s the one for which I’ll receive a lifetime achievement award.
I look for phrases to occupy my hands – anything to keep me from
getting up and down every minute a noun shakes itself from my late night promises.
I wade into projects of little urgency,
the completion of which tires me just enough to toss
book and turn off screen.
Tell Melatonin my name.
I have flames to subdue.
A bird is singing,
I hear it, from some far away place so intriguing.
As I slumber in my morning bed,
Deep within myself, a bird is singing.
As I awaken, I find it is not a dream.
Finally it had happened summer is here.
The song of the birds are cheery and bright, on warm summer mornings such as this.
My ancestors bowed to great morning sun, in the courtesy of its great need.
So the bird outside my window greats her eminence with song indeed.
My own song is that summer is here and I can walk and enjoy it’s full glory…
C. Burgess (c)