24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hour 4 – butterfly
Step two into the garden
barefoot feet upon the stone
missing you amongst the phlox
— a quick stop —
a butterfly in the path
a kiss from above
a gentle hello from between the words
a kiss from the wings
hello, mama.
It’s noon
the leaves sway
the air sings a lullaby
and I look up at the sun
like its a reflection
of what I can be.
I smile.
Let me shine
enough
not enough to burn
but just enough to gift
the day.
I can endow these birds
the lilies
the bees
the butterflies
the stray
with a sense of time.
With my soft rays
I can kiss your cheek
before the other takes her shift
and I can be the one
to wake you
so you can see me first.
I rise
I rise
I rise
I rise
I can give all my love to the Little blue-green baby
so beauty flourishes its way.
I see you now in my mind! How frail you were many years ago! Your white hair all pinned up neatly in a bun. Sometimes you would sit in your chair trying to listen to all of us, your little great grand children, as we were running around there! Your hearing aids were in place, a look of tiredness on your face! There were trinkets and treasures in a big, glass case, on display. I was so young then, but later learned about what hard times you lived and went through back in your day!
Sometimes when we’d come to visit, we would play in the yard, I was told there were snakes about so I always stayed on guard! My cousins and I would run in and out of the house. I hope we didn’t disturb you as you rested in that big tall bed! I wasn’t around when you passed away, I wish I had been, I often think back to those precious days! Wouldn’t you be lost and probably not know how to act with all this modern day stuff we have now! I think you would figure it out anyhow! Thank you Great Grandma for the strength I’ve learned from you and how you never gave up! You persevered as your five children you raised on your own: Your little family you led! One day soon I’m going to go back to my roots and look up your old Homestead! I love you!
To be a kid again, go outside and make a friend. To be a kid again.
If I could change one thing it would be the international network for communication around the globe, aka world wide web.
Too much marketing, to many sales pitches, and lies lies tell me sweet little lies. Everything is for sale.
What is your worth?
To be a kid again, it was funn. To be a kid.
*NeverLoseYourSmile*
Like underwater birds,
we used our wings
to skim the surface
of the pond and then
to dive deep
into its depths.
The dark waters enveloped us,
protected us,
freeing us from the weight
of everyday legs.
Above us, owls hooted from oak trees
below the purple of the sky
and bats emerged from caves
to swoop through the stillness.
I wanted to tell you then
how mistaken I’d been
but you had already seen
the falling stars of tomorrow
and knew the way to Amen.
The rural scenery is something I miss
The pig farms, the cornfields, the hills, the trees
And I would totally be remiss
To not mention the changing leaves
The coming of age, the small town life
The slower pace, the lemonade
The games and hobbies, the firsts, the strife
The lost industry, the traveling, the meetings, the parade
The learning, the laughter, the tears and the marvel
The trails, the rivers, the friends, and the rivals
The train tracks that ran through the middle of town
The two traffic lights, one most always out
The shops and the churches
A fountain of youth
Where childhood memories
Held immaculate truth
Those days are long gone
Yet I miss them still
The good ole days’ song
I’ll ne’er have my fill
My roots are there, planted
I sprouted and grew
I took it for granted
The best times I knew
I miss the simplicity
The slow, steady pace
But cherish their memories
With infinite grace
My heart longs for home
The cornfields and trees
The pig farms and train tracks
And life filled with ease
But maybe one day, we will go there again
Back there to the place
Of what might have been
I should be writing a poem right now
But all I can think about is you
and the way your lips taste
and how bad I’m craving you
and your smell
and the way your eyes look
when you slide into my core
The wind blows and
your breathy grow echos in my ear
I let out a sigh, as I sit here
with my lips pressed between my teeth
trying to write a poem
you walked in my shoes
they didn’t fit
you tripped
you fell
you walked on
pulled yourself up
you crawled for a time
sat for respite
blisters scalded
oozed and healed on heels
and toes
they didn’t suit
but you insisted
you would wear them in
take my place
take my man
my son and daughter
and now you cry
and don’t know why
he left you for another
big shoes to fill
it’s not you
nor is it I
it isn’t her
we that cry and rail
are not to blame
it’s he that seeks a wearer
of ill-fitting choices
lies to himself
and us
Gifu/Gebo
A process of gifting & receiving
An exchange built of strong bond & honor
Equated by time and sacrifice
Gifu should be worn like a Bonner
On the one hand –
We should gift with no needs of return
A credit and honor, supporting dignity
On the other hand-
We should receive in kind
So beware of those taking for infinity
When involved with a partner
True love is worthy of a KISS
X marks the meeting spot
Of sacred committed bliss
The magickal power held within
Is realizing the only thing
We can freely gift is Oneself
A friend of mine moved from an apartment we both lived in – but consecutively –
To her mother’s home in the suburbs
While awaiting one of a sequence of
Rescheduled surgeries.
She fell
Getting off of a bus on Grand Avenue
With its warped surface that scuffs loafers
And trips worn out sneakers
With equal disregard.
Grand Avenue has some old beauties, but was
Mainly the dividing line between which side of downtown had money and which side was just
Waiting to go to the East side.
As I wait for a bus,
An older lady sits cross-legged on the pavement. In the 50s, Grand Aenue’s heyday, she would have worn a dress and fretted into
A damp handkerchief.
Carrying my market bag, I, too, if I had been walking down Grand Avenue in the ’50s, would have resembled a McCalls dress pattern cover, if slightly wilted by June mimicking July.
Grand Avenue’s glamour is faded and a shirtless man whose tattoos settle into the creases of his aged flesh spits on the other side of the street
Another poet, maybe Ginsberg, would give prayers the Grand Avenue’s lost.
I get on my bus, rebuking myself for paying another fare, forgetting I still
Had time on my transfer.