24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Trust
Trust is reckless
The seed’s risk in breeching
Sanctuary walls
The wren building
In branch’s undulating safety
The colt greeting gravity
Moments after arrival
Trust is tenuous
Rent by silent absence
Wrecked by unspoken fractures
Lost in cruelty’s mirth
Trust is made
Of stiched rifts between lovers
Open arms of mothers
Of forgiveness asked
and
Absolution granted
Funny Girl
What a strange girl she is
who avoids parties like death
who doesn’t drink, or smoke
or JUUL
who instead prefers the company
of her seven pets, the zoo of her home.
She reads books as they lay by her feet,
she cleans house as they trail behind her,
does her homework as they nap on her back
and she is at ease cuddled into their fur.
What an odd thing, with her hair lopped off,
nothing left to dance in the air behind her
as her bike crashes down another path,
a loud laugh crashing from her throat
simultaneously.
What a weird chick, who gets animated
about a song or a movie
and catches her voice rising louder and louder,
thrilled to express the quirks that make her who she is.
What a funny girl.
BrandNew, brand new
Every day, I’m brand new
We are a lot like me
To be BrandNew, every day
Much more than new
Thousands, millions
Between the police and the BrandNew
Nobody knows very well
But all, they are brand new
Police are looking
Everywhere they can, they cannot find
A single old man, nowhere
They did not leave
On this day of New trouble
They cannot do anything outside
And outside cannot do anything about them
BrandNew, everything is New
All the time
Never the chance to grow old
Life renewed continuously, like the News
BrandNew, brand new
All the time
1 trillion times a second
BrandNew, brand new
in frozen wonderlands
little succulent turtles
grace the window sills
white and plain
the green effusing the room
with a gentle breath
forgetting
the depths of life
are often grasped in plastic hugs
the succulents have dreams
the turtles they weave
will bear the gene of retention
and freedom,
acing lies.
iridescent flitters just to the corner of my eye close enough to touch, but outside of capture small creatures swiping at the web of dreams a visual siren's song to come play away from safety bejeweled wings whirring in motion designed to entrance figments of illusion persuading unsuspecting sleepers to yield beings of fantasy from days of magic and unicorns lay siege on the one's who left them behind
Moving about in younger years,
Sometimes brought laughter, sometimes tears!
This town, that city, a new state of mind.
Always a cool destination,
How many friends did I find?
California was golden alright,
So desperately dry.
Plan a picnic on any summer day,
With not a drop of rain from the sky!!
Boulder, Colorado, Carolina too,
Down south do they call that constant sweat,
Humidity or dew?
I’m glad i landed where I’m at,
Being older now and wiser at that!
Oh, I musn’t forget the freezing tundra of New Hampshire,
As I sigh……
There are two seasons up there…. Winter and the 4th of July!
“Don’t be afraid,”
say the dead-eyed tv anchors.
“There’s nothing you can do.”
Some desks are already
empty
bloodied
silent
devoured.
People are barricaded
inside homes, churches.
They are not safe.
No one is ever safe.
eaten
danger
screaming
devoured.
It just feels so empty,
so hungry.
Maybe one more soul
will fill the aching void.
tired
hungry
manic
devours.
It’s
just
still
so
HUNGRY
Bob Armstrong lost the match, so he’s gotta leave town
There’s no one left to stop the Flame from burning Dothan down
No one is left to save folks in Pensacola, they all might just drown
But rumors around Montgomery say a Savior is on the way
He’s a masked man who’s tough enough to join the Continental fray
A man who’s bad to the bone, and he’s gonna make them all pay
He will take on Ron Fuller, Jos Le Duc and the Mongolian Stomper too
He’s a natural born hero, who stands for everything good and true
There won’t be one single bad guy left standing when this hero is through
The Bullet is loaded for bear and headed down to fight
He will be at the Houston County Farm Center this Friday night
He will avenge his best friend Bob and make everything all right
The Bullet is coming to clear the snakes from the Wiregrass
When the last bell rings Friday night and everything has come to pass
Stories will be told forever of the time The Bullet opened an Armstrong sized can of whoop ass.
My tendency is to rewrite every adjective
A dozen different times
To sketch again that eye and then again
To get THAT note perfect before moving on
While the rest of the bird
Waits in the nest
Waits for a worm
Longs for wings
If Nature made the robins thus
The Earth would be a rotten place
With a burning heart
she rose up from the flames meant
to turn her to ash
and like a phoenix with her
wings of fire conquered the sky