24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
In morning’s gentle light, I rise with the sun,
A daily routine, a rhythm, begun.
With coffee’s warm embrace, I start the day,
To chase my dreams, in my own unique way
Through hours that follow, tasks neatly align,
A dance of duties, a life so defined. But in this routine, I find my own grace,
Each day a new canvas, a chance to make a painting new
I’m being released
by my own congnizence
this morning,
that, rhyming naturally
is harder than it’s made to look.
No warnings issued, but
a few fellow poets
clanked on my cell
to let me know
I’d been seen,
and I did likewise.
I hope,
as visiting hours
resume
and comments are
shared, to learn about
others’ solitary. as well.
I tried -before the website careened to standstill –
to tally how many poems I’d done and to confirm which years
I participated, and what I’d made private.
A group functionality would be nice for designating poems
as private, but I digress.
“i shall never honor the texas flag; i pledge no allegiance to thee, texas, one state under no god, one and divisible.”
Running through the grass
whipping around my face
wind howling behind me
while the darkness consumes
chasing me
rounding the curves
I cut through the grass
even as it is chasing me
it is still running
He is not a man.
I don’t like adding
a possessive pronoun to an ex-person
who held my life in prison
I broke free.
And I abhor any part of my history
That’s connected to him
The hell and the heathen of his shadows
I cringe when I have to add ‘my’
To any part of speech that
contains the traces of his
Dark dark fingerprints
Even in disgust,
I hate addressing
the ex-person
with a possessive pronoun.
Something of mine
is so intimate
that I want none of his claws
to find it again.
His very name
can sully ‘my-ness’ of me
I broke free
of the prison he held of my life
Why then,
Should I attach a possessive pronoun
to that unknown
unwanted X in my life?
Violins play from my phone
I breathe in time
I hate this part of the week
but this must be done
I disinfect the area
ready a second swab if needed
Pull the cap from the injection pen
and rest it on my thigh
I breathe in
grip soft fabric
and press down
healing fire fills my leg as I moan
I hold it down
count
then examine the leg
for bleeding from the injection site
I sit
stare
sigh
and dispose of the pen
The hatred U have for me makes no sense to me like it does to U
U don’t want me to know my history my herstory
bcz it is a telling of the evil deeds of U and yours
Yo mama, yo mama’s mama , yo mama’s mama mama
Yo daddy, yo daddy’s daddys, yo daddy’s daddy daddy
U don’t want me 2know Yo daddy, yo daddy’s daddys, yo daddy’s daddy daddy raped
My mama, my mama’s mama, my mama’s mama mama
U don’t want yo kids 2 know of your evil deeds
Yet Black history/herstory iz ameriKKKan history/herstory
So I will do all that I can to make sure my children’s children children will know the truth
And anyone else who will listen to learn
And then I will tell of our wonderful history/herstory and all of the power that we possess.
We will not be silenced by your nonsensical hatred
I am living in someone else’s house
Decorations meant to soothe
but sharp edges cut my consciousness
None of this is mine
and while I am here I must care for it
Doorknobs run on electricity
and cameras viewing the outside world
I will be glad to leave here
Hope isn’t just 4 lettered word
It is beyond that.
It is uncertainty, affirmation, a mix of everything yet nothing.
I see hope in colours, in speeches, in pauses, in the eyes.
Maybe, 26 alphabets arent enough to describe it.
It opposes perfection yet surpasses ambiguity.
Wake up at five
brush teeth and hair
Slick it down
not an errant curl
Quick cup of coffee
time for a cherry poptart
feed my pups quickly
wishing for more time to play
Take the old jeep
to the depot station
Stand in line with strangers
study my notes for the day
Board a train with others like me
wishing to be somewhere else
Wondering if they also wished to be
someone else like me