24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am the beads of sweat
Trickling from my scalp
To the puddle forming
Under my feet.
(I am not my feet.)
My hand-me-down sneakers
Accuse my legs
Of that I am guilty of;
(I am not my guilt.)
That the sun
Towards which I run
Is the same place that I am leaving.
(I am not the axe that I hold in my hand.)
Write a poem about magic. Magic as something real, magic as something imagined, magic in a fictional setting, magic in an urban situation, it can be about how children perceive the world as magic, or possibly magic, anything really. The word magic need not be mentioned, but it can be.
I do not know what pronouns to use
for the girl I was at nine years old,
sitting across from another girl
who was not a girl at all. As he bit
into his burrito, I imagined that one of us
was a boy– it didn’t matter who– and we
were on a date. I imagined that we
had driven to Taco Bell in my lime green
convertible, that I steered with one hand
because he was holding the other. I imagined
that he looked like John Lennon in his round
sunglasses, that he’d insisted we eat here
because of how much I loved the bean burritos,
saying it’s alright babe, I don’t mind. I imagined
that he always called me babe, that our whole
life was a sleepover that never ended.
At nine years old, our hands were too
small to know what it meant to hold
each other, though we held on through
sweaty palms and wayward glances
from strangers in line to order their
crunchwraps and double-shelled tacos,
too rushed to call us out for being dykes.
They would have been wrong and right
about who we would become. Now, we attend
colleges on opposite sides of the state,
only meet in the summer. We never say
anything about the burritos we ate
one-handed, though we still look into
each other’s eyes without daring to ask
what we’re looking for. Our Taco Bell
has been gone for years now. Another
restaurant stands in its place. We drive
away in seperate cars. In a year’s time,
he will no longer know what to call me,
and I will begin to hate bean burritos.
Malicious
I am the thing that crawls around your brain
That whispers madness, disregard, distain
I am the darkness when you long for light
I make you dismal in the small hours of night
I am the words the swirl ‘round your head
Repeating remarks others once had said
I am the obscurity of visions, vile, untrue
That keeps you from seeing the momentous you
I am the malicious thoughts you deliberate
That twist and twine your hopes and bind your fate
I am what is keeping you from starting life anew
I am nothing but your thoughts. I am you.
All power and authority
Summoned and required
Fervently preparing urgently daring
Striving to our hearts desire
Some collapse some surpass
Some crash some succeed
Connection to entities greater
The need
Through all terrain and realms
Valleys, Precipices, and Venues
Forward onward
The Marathon Continues
God
Just blow me away
Let my melody run with the wind
Nothing can stop the breeze you are flowing within me.
It is an overflow of your spirit,
an overflow of your joy,
your promises are everlasting.
there are no circumstances!
Just as you blow the wind with full force,
just as you rush the water in the rivers without hesitation
you also pull me into your loving arms
Let my strength be as willing as a feather taking it’s course in the wind.
Heigh Ho
____________________
I am the cheese –
even now I count the times
and lose track
I am background noise –
outside the light’s beam
or on the periphery of something
beautiful.
You move on
and on
and on
while I am the one
holding space
room enough
in case you return.
A snuffed candle
leaves a smoke trail –
I am vapour
residue
of the flame.
I am on your clothes
on your tongue
the me
in you.
No child
or cat
or dog
I am the cheese
and your palette
tires of this taste
the flavor of the month
now baklava
but sweet honey
am I for the
connoisseur
so I will wait
on and
on and
on
until
I embrace
my inner cotija –
pour myself a glass
of wine and lift it to
the sky I am.
Hour One
I Am
I am watching slo-mo years
race by at breakneck speed
on a different stopwatch.
I am reflecting myself
as I peak into the Sound.
Tip toe to the edge,
have to watch the kids,
cause it gets deep fast.
Orcas come in close,
spout and shrill,
smell like the seaweed
that opens it’s arms
in watery welcome.
I am spectator.
I am witness.
Where I stand was
under a mile of ice
fifteen thousand years ago.
Ice melted,
land rose,
relieved of weight.
Footsteps pattered
onto fertile terrain,
islands carved by
icy retreat.
I am a witness.
I am a spectator.
I am responsible.
I am purple glitter cascading onto white marble swirls;
I am frizzy, puffy curls in a flat iron world.
I am amethyst toe rings wiggling across a pedicured floor;
I am snorting laughter during Robert’s Rules.
I am fake eyelashes and black eyeliner in a prosaic coif;
I am improper and awkward.
Fehu is the key in opening the door
Of loving oneself just a little more
By looking to others to hold my hand
It disappoints time and time again
Ancient knowledge guiding the way
Providing fulfillmen to the end of days
Fehu must be shared freely, no hoarding of toils
Being materialistic, one must avoid
Reassert intentions with this magickal stave
Cosmic fire in Freyja’s Et shall brighten the way
Dig deep in your soul, turn dark into light
By valuing oneself, Prosperity reignites