24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The home of costumes
and confusion to some,
images of organization
to others.
Never enough most claim!
beneath the bed ain’t the same
as shelf space.
But the dreams hung here
can wither and die in the dark,
motheaten and buried
treasures lie deep within.
Don’t close the door
unless it’s cedar,
and the walk-in
is the same distance
as the walkout.
Why do I always do this to myself?
Scary movie onscreen,
my pick for the evening,
but I’m the one hiding my face
and closing my eyes.
Most of the time it isn’t the images that bother me,
but the noise.
Surely some of that is exaggerated,
but still,
the sounds of gore give me goosebumps
more than anything.
I am always a sucker for a good thriller,
but again I ask –
why do I always do this to myself?
I’m a scaredy cat who loves to be scared.
An ocean of crimson nectar shrouded by a refractive vessel as if to preserve the substance for eternity, or longer Medicinal ferment to soothe the aches numb the pain free the creative juices and entice sleep Social lubricant of the ages frees the tongue from decades of taming be still the beasts of shaming
Walls of glass,
Doors of iron,
Nothing can keep me from you.
Screams of fear,
Tears of shame,
Nothing can make me forget.
Splintered wood,
Deafening silence,
Nothing could prepare me.
The deafening silence,
From the tears of shame,
Break through the glass walls.
And I am finally free.
My closet is a cleaner’s dream
a nightmare, truly
stuffed with sweaters, pants, skirts;
two full closets of dresses all
hung so tightly impossible to pull one out.
On the bottom are shoes- a hundred pairs I guess,
all shapes and colors for day and night,
in hot or cold weather. Handbags dangle
from broken rungs thrown willy-nilly
on side walls: big ones for computers, small ones
for carrying cash and a lipstick–colors that match
every outfit I own and others I don’t.
I dream of clothes of all colors, with blouses
and scarves to match. Even underwear must match,
it, too gets thrown wherever it can fit.
Every year I organize,
everything has a place,
and in 2 months,
it’s a mess.
I can’t win these days,
I won’t even try.
Just close the door
and breathe. It’s not yours
it’s mine.
Imagine one day, you open the closet door.
Rows and rows of shoes align,
your shirts, your jackets, your suits, your ties,
and yet you fall into time, into space, and I’m there again,
amidst the dresses, skirts,
the mirror world between us and distance forgotten
as we step back into closets, into time
into familiar and soft things,
and when I reach out through the glass,
it’s you there, amidst the familiar and strange,
where we can walk out of the closet again,
open and gloriously, wonderously and lovingly free.
Closets
People tell me stories.
Mostly their own.
How her beloved came out
as trans, and how she left him
her. And how s/he wants
to be friends, and how she can’t.
How her husband was a serial cheat
unfaithful with her best friend.
How her own sister
had to tell him no.
And I wonder: am I a kind of closet?
As they offer me their stories
is it a kind of coming out?
Requiring trust, and a doorway
opening into sharing…?
What is it about closets, anyway?
That we place our secrets deep
within them, that walking out
of them is a declaration
a kind of freeing.
And am I a kind of doorknob..?
Young imaginations
conjure creatures
into closets.
Fire breathing dragons, warlocks, witches, magicians, unicorns and
even the boogy man have done hard time
in small closets across the world!
Yet, as we age and our closets become smaller
as we become larger, our nightmares leave
our small closets
and our imagination.
The closets close and
imagination shuts down
no longer conjuring the strange and sometimes wonderous creatures.
The secret is-
to keep conjuring and believing without fear!
Allow the things to live in the closet-if they so wish!
But remembering who holds the key to the closet-YOU!
Hour Twelve !!!!!
What Garbage is; and isn’t
Garbage is litter, deadwood, rubbish, and trash.
It’s stinky, rotten, mushy, and junk.
Garbage is scraps of debris, refuse, and waste.
It isn’t pleasant, aromatic or useful.
It can’t be recycled, reused, or fixed up.
It’s messy, dusty, gross, and just plain yucky.
Garbage is leftovers, someones scraps, leavings, and slop.
Made up of compost, odds and ends, bits and pieces, of this and that.
Garbage is scummy residue, remnants of spoiled cheese, poop, and remnants.
It’s definitely not recyclable, an asset, nor valuable.
Garbage isn’t a ‘catch’, a ‘prize’ or fine possession.
Not considered as wealth, clean, or pure.
Garbage is garbage is garbage and nothing more.
It isn’t worth keeping, won’t increase in value, become rare, or priceless.
Garbage is just junk, offensive, substandard, and insufficient.
But.
Rotten garbage can be useful, provide nutrients to plants and lawns.
Salvageable bits and bobs turned into artwork, a motley collection of this and that.
And yet.
Garbage is unacceptable, inadequate, shoddy, and wanting.
Unusable, unsuitable, a mishmash of rabble and riffraff.
Garbage is waste, unwanted stuff we throw away; nonsense, hogwash and drivel.
The 11th hour
The 11th hour is coming near.
Where will you be?
As the Earth begins to crumble
from the mass of unmarked graves.
The children who were once alive
now wander the land
crying for their parents
who are no longer here.
The 11th hour is stalking
our thoughts,
bringing up past guilty
acts of culture appropriation.
Mimicking the people
who once aided their ancestors
in their time of need.
Only to be downgraded
and have families torn apart
by “Christian acts of love.”
The 11th hour draws nearer.
Tell me, where will you be
when judgment is upon you?