24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am the distant, divorced, defiant daughter
of parents who persistently ponder
why I can’t just settle for simple.
I trust these trouble-makers to tell
me the honest, blunt truth.
I married simple, and simply put, I smiled sweetly
while he wiped away our forever
without wrestling with whether or not it would
kill me.
When you awake to the fact, that-
“good” is an adjective
not a personality trait,
simple stops looking so sweet.
As time passes,
New leaves sprout on my English Ivy.
New growth stretches towards the window.
Towards the sun.
As time passes,
New truths are shared in my family.
with my friends.
More people know who I am now.
But not enough
As time passes,
My kitten matures into a cat.
He grows closer with our dog, his sister.
They care for each other.
As time passes,
I get more fed up with my body.
The things it does each month,
The fat placement,
The mammary glands.
As time passes,
My siblings turn into adults.
Once toddlers, now teenagers
Almost mature.
As time passes,
I wish for a full beard
and wonder how long it will take to grow one
once I start testosterone.
I hope it comes quickly.
As time passes,
my “transition” progresses,
but I am not the only one,
the only thing
in transition.
I noticed you the Spring following
At first, I believed myself foolish to think you’d go to the trouble
You were always so quick to go unnoticed
If at all possible
The Quiet Man, mom would call you
Just like the movie
You’d land on my car, right by the door.
Hard as I tried, without harm, I’d shoo you away
And you would, only to land on the steel fence right next to me
Once or twice, even landing on my arm or hand
At the time, you were just another insect
A life that flitted about in search of your purpose
A year later you appeared again
Same coloration, same routine of
car,
shoulder,
fence
And every year after, since, you return
Sure as the seasons
Never before then, though
That’s how I know it’s you
So delicate,
these little winged beings.
They sip sweet nectar
from orange slices and
then they launch into the air.
In the tent
outside the museum,
they are protected
from London’s rain and traffic.
Here, people of all ages,
point and laugh,
marveling at the creatures
flitting above and around them
and then,
one lands on you,
perches on you,
flaps its orange and brown wings
and you look so surprised and
so delighted and,
yes,
so beautiful.
Exhaustion lingers in my soul.
My bones are leaden, my muscles jello
My body aches, my minds a troll
I’m not even feeling mellow.
My eyes they sting, each breath burns
I feel my brain begin to quiver
I give out, get no returns
My entire being starts to shiver.
With every thought, I want to scream
Even speaking is a chore
Each tired glance is a bad dream
I give up, I hit the floor.
Grief is a python
It is shaped into creation
In your brain
It slithers down
The spinal cord
Into the
Veins in your body
Until it reaches your heart
Where it curls around
Squeezing your chambers
Until you are emptied
Of the life you knew.
Deja Vu
I’m sorry what’s your name?
Whos wedding is this again?
Meet me in the alley.
Wanna make out?
Delicate wings stilled
by the sugary electricity
of honeyed nectar.
Amidst the haunted greyscale of
enveloping shadows
and imprisoning infrastructure,
Nature sets silent beauty to experience
the world in splendid simplicity,
with citrus colors like a flame of an awakened life
the butterfly drinks–
an angelic descendent tasting
the sweet progeny of ambrosia.
Silky jazz or a jangle banjo’s licks.
Kick off your shoes, roll down your stocking tops.
Weave through the smoke with whiskey on your lips.
Come to me, here, deep in my dream, let’s dance.
I often think I know all of your tricks,
how you can spin a tune that never stops.
The shimmy of your shoulders and your hips
that mesmerize. I never stand a chance.
Why do you come, Louise, to me, a man
you never met so long ago? And why
can I not leave the dreams you seem to bring,
enticing me, in sleep, to love again?
At least you never ask of me to try
more than the slowest dance, you wicked thing.
(I really do dream of Louise, more often than I can explain. Never met her. Apparently I wish I had. As for wicked, that sobriquet might be better applied to me, but then it wouldn’t be a poem. )
.
So many colours to choose from, so why must they always be red roses?
In the restaurants, boutique shops, flower stalls, everywhere – red roses!
Gardeners call some of them tea roses, but it isn’t about tea, or love.
It’s all about size, and the fact that they have no scent, like dead roses.
Last year, we noticed two children at the airport, waiting for their luggage,
As their parents unpeeled candy to sweeten them – two pink well-fed roses!
Heaven uncoiled its garden hose this morning, an endless, thick, grey snake
Of dirty-white water, which flooded the backyard, giving us a row of wet roses.
Some time ago, I visited a friend, who found out her husband had another,
A much younger woman looking to harvest from another’s bed of roses.
Returning to what I’d like to think of – other colours, more detail and scent,
Wild bouquets of cornflowers and carnations, anything instead of roses.
*Please look online for the definition of a ghazal. Thanks.
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