24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
the poem is not the emotion,
the dark mouth swallowing
your yolk-burst heart, it is not
the icy tongue around your neck.
it is a remnant.
we write it down dumbly
the same way we worship
a god who one day will destroy us
with the flick of a wrist,
without a second thought.
congratulations and thank you for the poems, half marathoners! and good luck to those carrying on. xx.
Hour 13
He Rules the Pen
Is retirement a profession?
When did becoming
a permanent cat bed
become a daily requirement?
He rules the pen.
Prompt: Humorous account of workplace
I am settling into a new role in life,
Taking on the mantle of reading tutor.
Sharing my passion for words and stories,
With lovely, eager boys and girls
Wearing big bright smiles
And wanting so much to please.
I sit with every child
For their allotted time each day,
And we explore letters and sounds,
Digraphs, blends and magic e’s,
And practice reading with the smooth fluidity
Of everyday, every-person speech.
I sit with them, and yet far from them,
Because they are in front of their laptop,
And I in front of mine.
And when the vital internet connection
Struggles and glitches and lags,
One sweet little boy in Arkansas
Frantically taps his screen and calls,
“Ma’am! Ma’am! Are you OK?
You’re frozen.”
Wasn’t I born for my profession?
Search and seize have been my forte
Ever since I have been an imp.
Would catch a cockroach or two
Examine them minutely
Wondered why they breathed their last in my hands
Garden flies, butterflies, hot kitchen vessels
Nothing escaped my attention.
Grew up to be a Pharma chemist.
I killed more mice than the cancer that we grew on them
Colorful medicinal compounds would I make
And dose them on the poor critters.
Miserable they were but they did teach me
Those also serve that wait and hope
In all earnestness noble was my profession
Overfive decades of dedicated work
Many a medicaments have I developed
They are but a disappearing drop
In the ocean of knowledge that still lays uncovered
I can spot a good vein across the room. Pulsing, thick, blue lines in a curved elbow,
a graceful hand fluttering with thin veins spiderwebbing over dainty wrists,
slender arms my finger ghosts over, seeking, searching, feeling the firmness,
the dense flow that ebbs just beneath, the knotty scarring of many donations.
I fight the urge to cross strangers, to skim my fingers over cords of tendons,
the soft, fluttery hum of arteries, the pliant nerves ghostly presence
and the shallow basin of a vein, clarified with a pressure cuff. Not seen but felt,
my finger presses, and with a deft hand I strike, drawing blood. They pay me, you see,
professional vampire in a modern world, bloody gift sent to dreamless lab technicians,
nourishment to feed the hungry community their gift-giving life.
Like Suitcases
stuffed full
closets hide
what we expect
not to see
life is not always
as we see it
sensory sensitivity
makes me stuff
shame under carpets
in shoeboxes on shelves
into trashbags
Let me get through the day,
I will deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.
Light overcame darkness,
the whole sky turned blue,
birds started chirping,
flowers got ready to bloom,
A new day started,
hope giving us another chance.
There are Skeletons in my closet
Not the kind you may think
There are Ghosts in my closet
Not the kind that haunt your dreams
There are Monsters in my closet
Not the kind from your childhood
They’re all waiting in my closet because
ITS ALMOST HALLOWEEN
I walk into the classroom, lanyard around my neck
I brace myself, cover my ears, the rooms already wrecked.
Tiny little bodies only three and four years old
Run around, tossing things, acting very bold.
Circle time is like herding cats, first weeks are a strain
Learning about our kiddos can really test our brains.
I see a little boy who is sitting by himself
I grab a dinosaur puzzle for him, I take it off a shelf.
We work on words like big and loud, finally he laughs.
I pretend a dinosaur is just a big and scaled giraffe.
I coax him to use words as we work at the little table
I mostly want to see where he is at, make him feel stable.
We sing and dance, use silly tones to help our kiddos through
Working with such special needs, well, that’s just what we do.
I had nothing to say about the prompt for this hour… so I wrote what I wanted to…
Am I the Mistake
I understand now
That you were right,
I was your mistake.
That doesn’t mean
It was in any way
On my shoulders,
For I was a child
Whose only responsibility
Was growing up.
You made the mistake
In having children
You could not love
Unconditionally.