24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
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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Sweet nectar breathes life into a dark, dreary day
As the moth reflects on his changes
From a small caterpillar, crawling high on the orange tree branches
To the moth now sucking the orange juices to subsist
A dichotomy exists; the cycle of life
From caterpillar to cocoon
From seed to sprouted fruit
Both the orange and the moth have their purposes made clear
As one life continues, so too one must end
The orange, unknowing, the moth be its doom
The moth, now knowing the orange be its lifeline
And yet, they need one another in a narcissistic way
For one’s survival and one’s immortality
Blinders on so we don’t see the harm that’s done, the travesty of children caged in a foreign land so afraid and alone though their cages are crammed with others who sought a better life and wound up here no hope in sight. But it’s hard to look and harder still to see so we have blinders on in this “land of the free.” We are far from brave. But those kids sure are while we look away their young lives are scarred. Or we look fleetingly, then wring our hands and offer some logic about foreign lands and rules of law or scarce resource or how there must be consequence of course - for breaking the law in the USA. This country’s ours not theirs we say. When these children cry, we look away.
I hated the sea, its vastness, and uncertainty.
Thrown on a boat, tethered to the helm.
Murky brown waters fade to clear blue as the sun beats down on me, all around me.
Blinding heat chokes me as salt permeates my skull.
I yearn for blissful shade, a gust, a breeze.
Thirst falls upon me, my mouth unable to form words.
I cannot scream for help.
No longer do I care about how alone I am on this vessel.
The time has come for me to survive.
My teeth saw my hands free from the ropes, it takes hours.
Struggling to keep my balance I peer over the side of the ship, the depth is dizzying.
Panic sets in.
I am alone.
The engine rolls over every time I try to start it, I am dead in the water.
So I allow myself to float.
Staring at the clouds as I lay on my back trying to remain calm.
Time passes.
I reflect back on my life before The Boat.
Kick my self over all the time I took for granted.
Nausea, exhaustion.
At some point, I lull off into a warm sleep.
Visions of cold water and comfort fill my head.
I wake.
I cry.
Night comes and the sky explodes.
I never realized how terrifyingly microscopic I am in this universe.
Millions of stars guide me through the night, singing lullabies.
The water becomes still in an almost malicious way.
Dawn begins to break and I’m carving words into the planks on the floorboard.
And then a bump.
Land.
I am given thought—
When cleaning up a slimy sink;
dishwater refreshed.
Cleaning up a muddy mess.
Pulling weediness.
Like fresh breezes move the dust;
motion frees my words.
Give my thoughts a little gust—
From mind’s rancidness.
That’s that shit right there, that gets me in the mood.
Baby if you smart, you’ll follow me to our room.
That’s that shit right there, that pisses me the fuck off.
I may have “lost” my religion but I didn’t loose me.
Our God’s ain’t got no beef, if you look underneath.
That’s that shit right there.
That make me be like, “Ooo I knew something wasn’t right.”
That’s that shit right there, that fills me up.
No hot sauce for me.
Cause I’m all the hotness I need.
That’s that shit right there.
That’ll get you fucked up.
Because as the saying goes.
You better check your self before you wreck yourself.
You know.
That’s that shit right there.
That be having me all up in my feelings.
You better move out my way.
You blocking the TV.
That’s that shit right there.
You just got done feeling, thinking, saying, moving your body, neck, head, doing.
Cause this poem is that shit.
That’s right here.
Copyright © 2019 By Angelica Stevenson
All Rights Reserved
Weary eyes blink in the light
Do we have to go mother?
Yes, there is nothing for us here now
But why?
Life isn’t fair sweetheart
I don’t understand
You will someday
Too far gone, the past already seems
Even though it is one step behind us
Forward, we must move forward
Into the bright light
Never looking back
On the childhoods we left behind