24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Jack London was called to the wild
where I will not go
for the wild is too wild for me
a woman who sits on cushions
soft, pillowy, pretty
looking out windows
to the mean streets
where blood runs
hot in warrior gangs
and money lust
throws up towers
that scrape the sky
so high they diminish the clouds
shadows fall upon the innocent
and from above the elite look down
basking in their stolen sun
beautiful views
sequestered there safe
while we below fear the day
I wish I was an artist
So that everyone could see
The beauty and the heartache
That dwell inside of me
I wish I was a singer
So that everyone could hear
My tragedies and triumphs
My anxieties and fear
I wish I was an athlete
Long and lean, built strong and tall
Admired by the masses
Just because I could play ball
But me, I’m just a wordsmith
With tales to tale, insights to share
Hoping you’re still there reading
These strips of soul that I’ve laid bare
Shivering in my animal print hospital gown,
I greet this white-robed agent of pain
with a determined frown I ask:
What torture gadget are you bringing me now?
“Now, now my dear.
Dr’s orders, you hear.”
Proceeding to stand myriads of needles in my thigh,
He announced with a smirk no less than wry:
“This “gadget” you see is by far kinder today
It’s called a “Strengthsfinder”; we use it this way.
For people like you, we can bump up the juice,
Speed up the test and see which muscles you use.”
With all that was in me, I began pulling out pricks!
That is until the dial turned made them stick!
I’m sorry. I’m sorry (hands in the air).
Just do what you must,
Be gentle dear sir, in you I must trust.
Please find me some strength and be done!
It’s a crying shame, there’s no one to blame
No one other than me, so here is my plea
I took one trip too many, until there weren’t any
Frosty cold beers left, none to borrow from my peers
Three days from payday, nothing left for me to say
I suppose I’ll just do without, maybe sit and pout
My fridge has no soul with a beer shaped hole
My thirst grows by the hour, my mood is sour
I don’t know what I’ll do, how I’ll get through
I guess I’ll be sober for now, but mark my vow
I’ll send a prayer to the girl in the moon
Hopeful she will bless me with more of the High Life real soon.
Shattered, Tattered, Worn
Enveloped in my soul
Demons in every corner of my ‘system’
That’s what they call my personalities
All sitting around the meeting table within my mind
Chattering, screaming, haunting me
Do it they say, get it over with
Bathe in our irrational conversations
Submerge yourself in the darkness
Plunge into our desires
Suppress us no longer
Write a poem that contains at least five of the following words and possibly all ten.
Moonbeam
Coffee
Hush
Fog
Canteen
Damn
Concrete
fir
shelf
dock
The sweetest words are
Those that are spoken with love
From the heart and soul
Lights dimming in the atrium
Table clearing in the gallery
Patrons exiting to the streets and the alley
She eats the steak he eats the rice
The jacket wraps her back to warm so nice
Midnight and still sitting close and tight
We are now those people.
Meet for the beasts,
in secrecy, gathering to mete out punishments
which are considerable ecstasies for the
witches most deserving secretions of pleasure
which swoon and sway the minds of mortals
beyond the cold fire of countable cardinality
consistent to an abhorrent scale
given over to insanities of unaccountable countenance
creating a mad Hell of Heavens consumed
melodies of mythology
to which the redundancies of returning are replete with the desire
to return and return again.
“My favorite book is the one I’m reading,”
and she stole a heart
through an open door.
or maybe it was a window left ajar in case of needed escape
But Libby didn’t wear a cape,
just a crown
and held a torch
that shined the way
though not to where anyone thought they were going.
Off the island,
hordes shouted while the rest looked on
feeling naked and afraid.
Her favorite book was the one she was reading.
Of course, that one always ends.