24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hidden
I don’t think that you have
inspected the area very carefully, as you
have apparently not seen, and even over-looked,
the one you are seeking. Here, right in
front of your face, the
Love which you are longing for, standing out like ink
splattered on a white wall. I’m here. Oh, well.
Her eyes were a watery blue,
Reflecting her emotions,
Her gentleness for me,
Her granddaughter.
His eyes were marble blue,
Reflecting his appreciation of life,
His love of friendship with me,
His old friend.
Her eyes were deep blue,
Reflecting her inner strength,
The gifts of grace she shared with me,
Her godchild.
His eyes are sky blue,
Reflecting his quiet presence,
The strength of his soul as he loves me,
His companion.
Blue eyes…windows to souls whom I adore…
Eve Remillard
6/22/19
Let me in, darling
Don’t lock me out
I lost my spare key
Took you for granted
Let me in, darling
A second chance
Dark wolves encircle
You are my safety
“Resurrection Fern”
I settle back for some good finger-pickin’ guitar,
a gentle beat in the background. Is this
old-time steel pedal guitar Jim loved so much?
Already I am slipping down a memory lane
I have neither visited nor recall.
We will live like a ghost will live, the voice croons
in dulcet tones, the beat compelling,
the words unclear; until I hear
the fallen house across the way will keep
everything … the baby’s breath, our bravery…
and suddenly the lane is ours, the fallen down house
the one grandson Paul routinely mentions
ever since Jim and I took him, last summer,
on a house tour of the tumbling-down old,
the renovated and the obscenely huge modern.
Yes, our house, though not falling down,
will indeed keep the baby’s breath –
those raised, those visiting, and if I am lucky
that planted in the garden – to remind me
of our bravery. But it is the oak tree
that captures me most, the feature of our yard
now shading La Casita to house family
and friends come to celebrate Jim’s life, his
foresight in claiming this land for the lives of us all,
and especially the resurrection of spirit and tree
through his patient pruning and the gifts of time.
If his ghost wants to live with me there, so be it.
I shall welcome the company, and with my own
stubborn green eyes that see everything,
re-magine us as a pair of underwater pearls.
sarahw
Resurrection
Your ghosts versus our ghosts
Crying out each other hoarse
Raising toast to the last drop of wine
And they say Ahoy!
The graveyard’s now ancient
Yet there’s no undergrowth
Like a king’s palace
Of yester years
They cry for the summoner
Ahoy! Resurrection, Ahoy!
The battle lines drawn again
Little sympathies wearing masks
Protruding veins of blood
They carry scythes around their necks
As more time passes
Resurrection nears the half limit
Shouts of Ahoy! Dies down
Your ghosts versus our ghosts
Retreating endless times
They will fight another night
When moons will cry atop the grimes
The graveyard for a generation will stay still
Hour 7
@varenyas
She has not had to deal with me in a whole half a year. She eats what she wants, when she wants, usually cookies, too much coffee, and too little water. She takes, or doesn’t take, her medicines as she remembers or doesn’t remember. If she sleeps, it can now be in her chair in the living room. She doesn’t have to bathe. If her bills go late, they call. She is back to paying late fees, but she doesn’t have to deal with me… cleaning her clothes, or the house, or making her wash herself, or bothering her with breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with me piling her pills into her hand and waiting for her to take them, with reminding her to drink her water so she doesn’t end up back in the hospital like when she was so very sick, and I had to come care for her 6 months ago. She doesn’t have to deal with me kissing her forehead every night, and telling her I love her…
She hates to be told I love you. She says, “I don’t want to feel like I have to say it back.” I say, “You don’t. I know.” She says, “I know, too, so stop saying it.” I say, ” Just in case an airplane hits my side of the house while we are sleeping…” She says, “I’m not gonna sleep tonight, so we are okay.” I kiss her on the forehead again, tell her I love her. She tells me she loves me, too, and asks if I will being her cookies. I say, “No, but hoe about peanut butter toast and tea?” She snorts, “I’d rather have the cookies, but okay.” I bring her toast and tea, tell her I love her for a third time because I am going to lie down. She rolls her eyes like a teenager, “Leave your door open?” “Always, Mom.”
Twenty minutes, and she calls for me to help her to the bathroom. Twenty more, and she is back in her chair, having scoffed at the notion of her going to bed. This will happen in another twenty minutes. I offer her water, a kiss… a new I love you. She doean’t understand that all three of those things need to be fresh at all times when you reach her age. She is quiet…
But, shw doesn’t have to deal with me anymore, hasn’t had to in 6 months, no dealing with me making protest signs on her living room floor, or organizing marches and brainstorming gatherings to try and save baby humans from a government takeover. She doesn’thave to see me, a physical reminder, a product of her once compassionate, humanistic parenting.
She doesn’t have to be reminded of the indifference and apathy that fills her heart now.
There is no voice of reason, or sanity, or logic in her home now, keeping her well and sound. She has opted out of me, in preference of one more likely to give the cookies without a thought… and the salty trade off ian’t so bad. The trade off for not having a heathen like myself hold her to the tenets of well being and kindness to herself and others is actually a glorious beholding.
She can preach to the people on Jerry Springer reruns all night long now, and holler down the hallway to my sister on her knees in the bathroom, smoking drugs, praising jesus, and not hearing her calls at all. She will never once have to be reminded that there are many beautiful things about herself that she has forgotten… those same many things she hates to see come out in me… her antichrist, that she might remember if she picked up just one of those 7 dust covered bibles sitting on the table next to that chair of hers.
Music be a poem—
With music notes and lulling grace.
Music be an artwork—
Without color, line, or space.
Or maybe music takes these things to another a different time and place.
The sing-song of a melody.
The brushstroke of guitar.
Perhaps its music that is art and other things that aren’t
Hour 6
You held the golden keys of eternity,
I didn’t beg you not to go.
Instead I said to use those keys.
You held the golden keys of eternity,
and I wondered why you picked them up.
They glistened in your hands,
and I knew you’d use them.
CAT STEPHENS
(a Kennings Poem)
Face licker
Door greeter
Bed warmer
Intruder warner
Squirrel chaser
Snack master
Porch sitter
Bone chewer
Sun soaker
Crumb muncher
Bath dodger
Flea Scratcher
Street Walker
Yard waterer
Family lover
Heart stealer
Praying and Blessing
Up on the cabinet of my preschool room, is a box
full of books, waiting to be read. My teacher took
them down and sorted: keep, toss, donate. I wanted
Praying and Blessing but she threw them in the donate
pile, placed them at the glass front door, hoping
someone would grab, but dusting when they didn’t.