24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am
An artist I am
when painting at a poetry slam
in school, I am
teacher of future woman and man
I am Seuss’s Sam I am
I rhyme and like green eggs and ham
I am, also, a quiet lamb
but lion roars when shepherd is slammed
sad when far away from man
but when I’m home, at peace I am
I am a happy French madam
in Paris where the art is grand
and if you really give a damn
I love my family, it’s what I am.
-Sandra Johnson, 6/22/19
Drat. The Napping Hours are upon me!
Flow over me, sleep
Take me in your warm embraces
Bring me loving dreams
Inspiration is a story, that someday I may write.
My story, my life.
Of where I have walked, where I have roamed.
Of lesson’s I’ve learned, of the thing’s I’ve earned.
Of love that was lost, and love that was found.
Of the journey’s I have taken, of the will to my destiny ~
My own ~
Without being shaken, then I ask myself, what have I really done?
That no one else has done~
At this point in time I can say I have lived and loved, offered up laughter and mirth, to our beautiful Mother Earth.
Well like I said inspiration is a story, that someday ~
Needs to be told, well maybe, someday just maybe ~
I may write…
C. Burgess (c)
Goodnight catfish, I’ve done all I know to do
I’ve thrown everything that I can think of
Made every attempt to catch you
I’m slam out of worms and stinkbait
Now push has come to shove
And I just can’t sit here and wait
For you to break the water’s surface
I guess you won’t see me waiting above
I know that you’re there, though I ain’t seen your face
So I’m headed home now, time to pack it in
I’ve got a whole bag of cornmeal to get rid of
My wife won’t believe where I’ve been
Adamant Adroit Antic Baleful The adroit and adamant woman used Her antics to hide her baleful musings
Existence is the god of being.
Breathing in for being.
Breathing out of time—
breathing in then;
breathing out.
Being re-realized.
In the beginning,
there was only you,
wrapped entirely round
each other, melding
flesh in sweat soaked
bliss, burning fire
twisting through
crystalline ice,
warm and one.
The end evolved,
no drama nor violence,
just a cooling through
time of what had burned,
a tepid and stagnant
shallow pool, fading,
fading away.
Crazy Little They
Virginia Carraway Stark
I wrote a little poem
about a girl beyond the pale
they all thought it was about them
it was like the song
being ‘so vain’
they all thought this poem
was about them
but it was the crazy in it
that they all identified with
and laid offence and claim to
I worried about that poem
and the fact that if I put
a designation of a gender
and insane behaviors
to a character
that so many people
would reach out
and lash out in offense
claiming that I had written
a crazy little poem
about crazy little them
truthfully;
one of them
was likely to be correct
which one, I will never tell
because
if they were all so sure
that they were all that crazy
I think it’s safe to say
that it really was
a little poem
that was about
each and every one of them
who believed it described
crazy little they
that’s all I’ll ever say
surrounded by noise
the noise in my head
fights the competition
and looses.
Infinite nothing
To infinite none
Cohesive excercises of cosmic one
Vapors enterprise
Vacuous dust
Shaped into formations
In the image, trust.
Constellations bundled
Allegories rising
Genesis
Synthesis
Kinetic
Timing
Boom
There’s a man
On a planet
Out in space
Seeking a woman
From heaven
Desiring to place
Her hand in his hand
And look upon her face
Genesis of love
Requires absence of commonplace
Rules.
Defy gravity, formality, reality and logic
In the midst of infinite nothing the craftsman designed the object
of affection