24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Mirrors and silhouettes dance, begging a chance.
Figmants and phantoms. The draw such sweet utterance. Steeling my breath. Crying for death.
Words pulled against their will from willing lips. Unable to resist. On promises sip.
Ringing with whispers against the panes of reflective glass.
Nan warned us about it
she told us we should only think of clothes whenever we opened it
Or we would be taken to whatever was on our minds
We believed it to be a fairytale, but we followed her advise nonetheless should there be a possibility it became true
we shared this mystery with all who visited
it became somewhat of a family tale
some wove stories of what may happen if the advise was not adhered to
some secretly laughed for we couldn’t laugh in the face of the family matriarch
or display disrespect before others
Sam was one who did not care about warnings, lores or fables
he saw himself as an independent mind
one not easily swayed by the ramblings of an aged woman
He tried his luck that thanksgiving,
announced he would like to see a jungle
He opened the closet and stepped in
we all gasped at the sound of a lion when the door shut behind him
As we picked up our coats to leave
silence showered the room but no one dare speak of Sam who disappeared into thin air
goodnight Nan, thanks for having us over for thanksgiving
Hour 12
Closets
A closet is never empty.
It is always overfull with items.
One closet holds remnants of Christmas
that remain unused – – not cat safe.
One holds random boxes
of life’s paper trails.
One holds clothes from work
and the everyday I now wear
along with linens,
extra paper products,
shoes,
backpack
and just oversized junk.
A closet is a metaphor
for an overburdened life.
Hour 12
9/2/2023
“Curbside…”
We used to have 8 inch high – curbs
really!
Great for sitting and sharing
that KNOWING pause of wisdom –
just behind our eyes…
Then they repaved and repaved,
and repaved
’til the roads are higher than the sidewalks
– go figure.
And ya KNOW they never saw THAT coming!
Now the porch steps are the “curbs”
we sit upon,
and our shared “wisdom” varies to the risks
we are willing to take –
to reach beyond ourselves
when life so often happens at hand.
This is a quiet place –
even Mormons seldom pause.
Squirrels and the odd hawks wander by.
We even lose trees
and that is beyond rare elsewhere.
Secret gardens,
whom to call for repairs…
replacing blinds;
dealing with plumbing; furnace spiders
(the ones that block the gas feed lines inside).
Kibitzing on each manager’s method
of dealing with issues only they seem to see.
Always “Us” vs “them” ’til it isn’t.
Here its relatively safe, sedate,
quiet (’til it isn’t), and friendly (’til you’re irked).
“Curbs” to live by.
Chris
(C) Chris Twyford 9/2/2023
By the time you reach the last page here
what do you want to remember and
who do you want to be because
that’s the beauty of the Hummingbird
Lounge – no one ever stays the same after
a visit here. You are never alone
in anything you feel or experience and
that’s one thing you’ll find comfort in
every time you visit. And as the poet
I hope you’ll be inspired to make
the most of whatever you have
but YOU determine your own journey.
Not Me.
-M. Rene’
Oh there you are you checky child
In amongst the many tongues
The place where my child hood lives
A story telling hidy hole
The clothes silks from the east
The jewels from the continent
Wooden chests caved intricately of musses dancing wildly
I d say come out , but instead l think you should me in.
In the closer you and l , a private relm of our very own.
There napped once a cat in a closet
He dreamt of his loo and because it
interrupted bedtime
reached his box in quick-time
where I trust that he made his deposit
Look out there!
For once, just look.
Look!
Isn’t it beautiful?
These lights in the sky,
sparkling,
burning,
moving!
Stop!
Stop for just a moment.
Stop the wars.
Stop the fighting.
Stop the name calling.
Stop the hatred.
Stop fighting for some stupid job
so that you can cheat your way to wealth
without ever trying.
Just stop.
Stop for one moment,
and look.
Look at where we’re going.
We have such great potential,
all of us, together.
One mind.
One life.
One being of many.
Many being one earth,
one planet,
one orbit,
one journey.
So, stop it!
It’s just a job.
Not the end of the world.
Ostentatious sulphur-crested king sporting gilded crown and mischievous smile,
Cockatoos in different hues.
Eastern spinebill curving beak, straw-necked ibis shimmering like oil on water,
An iridescent rainbow of color. Brolga tall and pale stand still like Pacific herons in wetlands and
Near damp retreats.
In scattered pockets, beach thick-knee walks and whistles, cassowaries comb the boardwalk,
Adept dancers, twelve-wire birds of paradise steal the show.
The closet is where monsters lived
I could hear them breathing at night
But during the day it was where
I could escape the real monsters
It was narnia, it was a spaceship
It was the womb, safe and secure
Where the smell of old timber
Old varnish and moth balls
Grew tendrils into my memory
Whispering stories of when
I was Flash Gordon or Nemo
Outer and inner space,
But at night the looming shadow
That fell across the floor
Was where the things lurked
Waiting for me to slip
So they could feast on my exposed feet.
There are skeletons there too
That rattle in the small hours
Of secrets given to the monsters
Of secrets the monsters, the real monsters,
Gave to me
And so I stay half in half out of the closet
Both craving the anonymity of its embrace
And fearing all the things that live there
Things I can never tell another soul
That I told the closet instead.