Hour 12 – My Closet
A place to hang up
all of my fears
neatly tucked away
only visible when I open the door
Sometimes it is better
not to disturb the perfectly
folded garments of pain
it can leave you exposed
Remembering the dark
Sometimes it’s ok to be alone in the dark
and sometimes it is good to emerge into the light
Today I celebrate with my friends and
tomorrow I spend my time with no one
Grateful for poetry and dogs and the moon
Mandala – Hour Twelve
Mandala
Each fiber is woven and intricate
Each strand in tandem with the next
Individuality that joins together
A band of sisters, standing as one
A simplistic beauty, measured by a dream
A dream of art, the gift of life
That measures the test of time
O’er centuries long forgotten
To ensure we never forget
And a design that will never
One that shall be everlasting
For many centuries still
Yet to come
To be enjoyed by many
Forever
As our bodies are woven and intricate
Each strand in tandem with the next
With individuality that joins together
As a band of sisters standing as one
Just like the mandala
A Childhood Narnia
My mom hung my clothes in the box by the wall of my room
It carried my outfits for outings or school days
It’s where my favorite spot for hide and seek came into bloom
And grew when Woody made a dramatic entrance to his friends in his museum phase
It just held clothes, something so normal
Yet, in a child’s mind, it held enchanting memories
A closet carries your style of crazy, hippie, bright, dark, or formal
It carries the hats, the scarves, the imagination-helping accessories
A Narnia it has become when you first hid in the embrace of your clothes
And for some, a comforting escape where the outside world froze
After- inspired by Yehuda Amicha’s “Before”. (Hour 12)
after the knob has been twisted
after the search for the truthful answers
after we are transported into that realm
after the cutlass cannot uproot the sausages
after there are no more spaces to kneel unto
after the coldness beneath the ground is exposed
after all blowers have taken the departing vows
after things in the safe suffocate from darkness
after the sayings reveal that we are sinners
after the hearing makes us overwrought
after God’s eyes becomes the next target
after we start moving to the lake
of flames.
Planted
Each morning
l greet you
eager for your growth
sunlight, water, fertilizer
Hidden deep
away from prying eyes
a secret
from a temper
once lost
but resting
quietly now
24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 12: A Tribute to Carl Sandburg “A Reply to the Fog”
Moving in
like a fallen monolith
fearing my breath
will fade in the mist
It has eyes
circling like a hungry hawk
engulfing everything around me
as I wait to be a victim
I will be carried away
into a misty Gothic world
a prisoner of Castle Moon
my room, a small and dank turret
But alas, van Carstein will come
despite his passive ways
taking me to Fog’s other home
on London’s midnight shore
This magic sponge shines in grey
My dreams coming to life
imagination’s blooming flower
rooting in creaking docks
I love this world
a life in clouds of lust
hugging us, in a brumous bed of hope
dancing in the purplish haze
Barricades
I have learned to
keep my opinions
in a closet, since
they will most likely
be censored.
Not directly,
of course, but
so-called friends
may well disown me.
The herd represents
security for most people,
but for me it means
I could get trampled.
So, I’ll stay in the closet
alone, pretending
it’s my own meadow
that no one can visit
without my permission,
but the assholes
always enter anyway.
Hiding Place
Hiding Place
After the beatings your darkness was
my protection. My source of comfort
after the sexual assaults. Hanging clothes
were a curtain against the evil.
Blankets on the floor held me close
and secure. As a child you were my favorite
friend. My hiding place.