24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
To dine at a corner table, long nights
Of blues and poetry stringing together
Speaks of loneliness.
But yet, as you sit there with your jokes
And your smile, a word whispers, lonely,
The line in your shoulders
The Atlases effort that it is, to live,
To survive, but survive we do.
You can be alone and not lonely,
But dear, tell me,
Can you be lonely, yet not alone?
Look at your hand
And think of this:
However close
You concentrate,
You’ll never see
Those elfin, subatomic crumbs
Crammed in there,
Undecayable;
Existing even when
That bog you’re buried in
Is swallowed
By a dying sun.
And think of your descendants
Ticking their hours away;
Reckoning decades
By the clicks
Of my slim quarks
Thumping after you forever.
Look at your hand
And think of this.
In the beginning, was a hole,
And the hole was without sound
the sound was without a beat,
the beat was without melody.
And there were no words to the music.
Then a voice was heard:
Let there be a dance.
and let the dance have sound,
and let the sound be a song,
and let the song have words,
and let the words form poetry.
And let a beat take form.
And let all dance along.
But the world was void of dancers
So God took Elm and Ash
and made from each a man and woman.
And then the dance began.
Dear Death, How have you been? it's been a while have you come to collect some souls? It's not my time yet... but, while you're still here... Join me for a strong coffee I imagine your work must be killing - no pun intended .
Tell me what does dying feel like? Where do you take the souls of the dead? Does time wear you down like it does the living? Do you have a soul? If given the chance to be anything other than death what would you chose to be? -Janice Raquela Mendonca
Is it really your pleasure?
To drop chicken and waffle fries into a fryer?
Extra sauce please.
Your pleasure?
I’m no one special, just a fast food buyer.
But the words come with such ease.
It is my pleasure!
As if this sandwich is meant to inspire.
Magic words like a cheerful disease.
Your pleasure indeed.
Art is theft
It steals time
It steals sanity
It steals clarity
It steals health
It steals wealth
It steals breath
Art is life
It fills the time spent doing nothing
It gives voice to the deep secrets inside
It pulls out our darkest parts and makes understand ourselves
It feeds us on cold nights of the soul
It spreads to others who appreciate and purchase and beg for more
It reminds us to breathe when we have run out of breath
Hmmm…
~How do I feel?
Like a tiny, fluff
~feather~~~
~~~drifting in the wind…
How fragile and delicate
~complicated and free!
Beautiful.
~so very soft…
~drawn across a heated inferno~
of smouldering passion…
so easily~~~~~~~~~>
{{crushed}}
routinely, in fact.
~but today?
I…
Am…
Floating…
He’s a little magik boy
known to fiction and real world joy
millions love his special gift
many enrobe themselves and lift
their wands in unison, a rift
and instantly the world’s adrift
Uttering lyrical rhythmic words
swish and flick may sound absurd
but we adore the learned mimes
and pretending in medieval times
Bravery and brains alike
Potter and friends they take a hike
but at their heels shall always be
whose name must not be uttered, he
That wizard casts a glowering cloud
‘cross every non-death eater around
man and woman, boy and girl
shudder from his gloomy swirl
But we, at Disney can pretend
to vanquish Riddle in the end
with scar across our muggle pates
we raise our wands
and dream our fates.
– 6/22/19, Sandra Johnson
I’m not sick
I feel fine
I’m not sad
I’m happy inside
I’m not hated
‘fore i still love most
I’m not lonely
Even though I’m alone.