24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hour 8
Our Time
in the time of
saw silhouettes
trees have teeth
shadows are unrooted
Saw silhouettes
green can move
shadows are unrooted
forests clamber back
Green can move
first only in dream
forests clamber back
or wail with mobile branches
First only in dream
trees think of manprey
waiting with mobile branches
ruby, run out of dream into reality
Trees think of manprey
they have teeth
run, run out of dream into reality
in the the time of
Just a smile can make the difference
between a good day and a bad.
When you feel like giving up
a smile like a sweet caress
envelops you with love.
Just like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day.
Enjoying a home cooked meal with all your favorite things
A smile warms your heart in much the same way.
A smile can make you feel special deep down inside.
it’s not hard to share
and the cost won’t even break the bank.
Closets of My Mind
I have closets in my mind
That hold secrets:
Things I wasn’t supposed to know about—
The truth about Santa
Or I wasn’t supposed to do
Play with matches
Or people I shouldn’t have been with—
No names will be disclosed here.
I have locked away things I wished I didn’t know
Or wished I hadn’t seen…
Like the car accident that happened in front of me
And the woman lay bleeding on the road
Crying for her baby
Or the devastation after the tornado
Where parts of houses vanished
And a trampoline was on top of a tall tree
I have closets that hold the pain
Of loved ones who have died,
And the anguish of those assaulted.
Some closets are best kept closed
And some do need to see the light of day.
Cindy Herndon
SOUL SCREAMING
Soul screaming
Broken pieces
Scattered into the unknown
Joy
Laughter
Hugging gently her heart
Soul screaming
Letting go of
Memories of the future – unreachable
Happiness
Gratitude
Bursting like bubbles within
Soul screaming
Moments like petals
Holding tight on her favourite flower
She flew away on the cloud nine
Hour Twelve
Pause and reflect
for cause and effect.
They ask me to wait
as I watch the hands
of a clock hold time
more than I have been-
no rush, just wait
biding my time
in the midst of rhyme
They tell me, “Wait.”
For the next season.
The next opportunity.
For the next day.
Wait…
…on the Lord, I say
as the pieces to God’s puzzle
fall into place-
I wait.
You may know everything about your closet
Unless it has a door
in which case, you will find
that your closet may hold
anything.
Anything
Because
You
Don’t
Know
What’s
Behind
The Door
Oh, you may think you know,
but you don’t know
For
Sure
Oh, you may think it’s full of your stuff
clothes and boxes
mementos and treasures.
but you don’t know
For
Sure
It’s bound to be here somewhere
You
Don’t
Know
Oh, you may think it’s a refuge,
safe and secure
confidential
secretive
but you don’t know
For
Sure
Shit happens
You
Don’t
Know
Oh, you may think it’s a scary place
full of monsters and spiders and clowns
shadow depths
hiding spots galore
but you don’t know
For
Sure
Until that very moment
That very second
The door is opened
You just don’t know.
An Old Home
By American standards our home is old,
created from old growth forests of oak and poplar
on site one hundred and seven years ago,
while the war to end all wars raged on foreign shores.
Its wooden floors slope gently downhill,
spiderweb cracks trace filaments in plaster,
no door or window settles plumb into its casing,
and not a single closet exists.
Nooks, crannies, dormers, and cupboards in eaves abound,
the architectural precursors for closets in homes of later years
exist in all corners, on every level, charming spaces
and reading places are everywhere, but not one closet.
We did not bend it to our will, rather it changed us.
Wardrobes and attics, outbuildings and sheds,
crawl spaces became our norm. Our lives now,
in this sweet old home, are simple, slow, and warm.
a brother
I can’t believe Ryan found him
& not me , not that it matters.
The fact he’s found is far more
Important than who found him.
But he’s thin so so thin. Muffled noise
Beneath my arms: Stell I can’t breathe.
Right , of course. I let him go
Even though I really don’t want to.
I could barely believe my eyes
Seeing him walking beside Rueben.
Clearly talking machine-gun fast as always
Explaining something about mandalas.
He’d watched monks on YouTube
Spend hours making beautiful patterns
Out of coloured sand , taking days
Before sweeping them all away.
Still stunned , I wasn’t keeping up.
What have mandalas & monks to do with us.
S’Where I got the idea of sweeping the sand
Behind me everywhere I went. Disguise.
I still didn’t follow. It didn’t matter.
Ryan smiled down at him. Rubbed his hair.
How to make him mine again. You hungry Rube.
Oh Stell. Like you wouldn’t believe.
& just like that — he was back
Silhouette.
I have refused to take the form of
All the chalked outline of my father’s broken accent.
Substitute (h) with (aw)—confuse me, aw do you do this
With so much ease?
I contour my weightlessness in pronouncing all the heavy
Things my colonizers have tagged stressful and I still do not
Believe in a profile where (Englishman) is the closest
We’d ever come to glory/ forgive my insecurities, God/
Forgive the form I have decided to duplicate/ most importantly,
Forgive my senselessness in reminding you my shape is to remain
In your likeness.
In the middle of the intersection of rain and beauty,
There is a curve between the skies and I want to dance all
My bones to its likeness.
I have refused light so I always have someone by my side/
So my shadow has someone to hold unto, not me: (I’m a piece of
Disappearance etched into existence by thoughts of being lonely)
So I dine with all the people that tag my configuration of lost as purpose —
I love them hard enough to become tender and more lonely —I must stay woke,
I must not forget the purpose.
It’s only my existence in the wrong man’s body that delineate’s the purpose of lost:
To be lost is to be 100% certain that something or someone is searching for you.
Dear Body//light//brightness of a thousand firefly-petal// your amorphousness is
Enough testament that beauty comes in different forms —formlessness is one,
Your regards towards the shapeless accent you have grown to mole
On your skin is another & remember, form is introduced,
When the body has lost its original purpose.
“Gender is a spectrum,” they explained to me.
My brain clicked sideways.
“Like autism?,” I asked.
“Something like that,” they nodded.
My brain spun, then stewed, then spewed.
“I’m not sure that means what you think it means.”
They raised their eyebrows in questioning doubt.
“How would you know? Are you queer?
Or are you on the autism spectrum?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Both!”
Their laughter echoed across the room.
“You’ve been wearing a mask in the closet?
How does that work?”
My own laughter bubbled over as I admitted,
“Apparently, it doesn’t!”
When our giggles unwound, they asked me,
“As long as you’re coming out of the closet,
could you grab my coat? I’d hate to go back
in there since I’m already out.”
“Sure!” I agreed, walking towards the closet.
Looking at them over my shoulder I said,
“I’m guessing you don’t want to borrow my mask?”
Laughter escaped us once more,
filling the room with a spectrum of joy.