24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The world was without form, everything floating around space as we know it now.
No rhyme or reason to this massive blackness, swirls of matter, light years away.
One big black hole, no planets, no sun, just dark matter as if the galaxy’s eyes were close tightly.
16
I am tired of worrying
About all of my worrying
For it leads to more worrying
About my habit of worrying.
I am tired of struggling
To maintain control.
I know it is time to surrender.
Look what you have done. No animal would do this, only a human.
Torturing children, dragging them from their families, leaving them to die.
You justify it all in the name of your god… so superior.
Babies in cages. You have become so human, you are inhumane.
You have gone too far. I swear on all you love, your god is ashamed.
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.