24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am… …all I am… …nothing and all … … at the same time. I am sadness trapped within myself lost in a space of time Caught in an endless loop that can’t be measured, unstoppable destruction. restless madness. I carry lost moments and regrets. everyone wishes they could turn me back… can’t be controlled. wait for no man. I am time. I am the prisoner. I am the prison I am prisoner I am prison… I am free. -Janice Raquela Mendonca
There are words creeping across the meadow,
here beside
the Queen’s Highway.
I can hear them out there
on their little legs,
all
As
and
Ms
and
Peg-leg P,
no doubt with
that infernal, pop-gun,
piratical pistol.
Please, pardon my alliteration.
They’re making their
plans,
I can hear them out there,
like tiny,
Hitchcockian
highwaymen,
and they’re going to
highjack
the precious hours
of
my day.
I’d like to go out.
I’d like to go sit in my car
in the rain
and watch the people
stroll by with their
gaudy umbrellas
–
Have you noticed that
nobody carries black umbrellas
anymore,
except for those cheap,
awful
little disposable
jimsons?
Everything is
peppermint stripes
or
sunflowers
now,
or starry nights.
I wonder if Van Gogh
owned an umbrella?
–
Or maybe if the rain would let up,
I could go to the park
and listen to the children
flying kites.
As much as I enjoy watching
the kites dart
and rip holes in the
afternoon,
I’d much rather listen
to the joy
of their flyers
because I know that feeling
that exultation.
I fly kites too.
But no.
I’ll sit here with my pen,
capturing those
spidery intruders
as they crawl across
the sunlit floor of my day.
I’ll capture them
pinning them to paper.
And I’ll be safe for a while,
from those words.
And I’ll feel a different
exultation,
one which will be doubly
ecstatic,
when I fold and paste
that rough, first-draft page
into a kite
and join the children,
tearing holes in the sky
of an afternoon.
I’ll have nothing to fear
from the words
that will be frightened enough
of me
that they’ll retreat and regroup
to assault me some other time,
on some other rainy day,
in the inky darkness
beside the Queen’s Highway.
Hey guys! This is my second year of the marathon, this year tackling the full marathon. I’m excited and nervous and thrilled and so many other emotions all in one. I know things will be great, though. I hope you all enjoy the poetry that my heart bleeds. God bless <3
I am here.
Raging waters, roaring rapids, currents flood me, but I am solid and do not move.
Am I the strongest, the most resilient? I’d hate to think so.
Trees tower overhead, leaves fall in circles around me, I am at but a speck in the grand scheme of it all.
Am I important, important in the slightest bit? I’d hate to think so.
The sun cascades through the clouds, stinging my skin in a nostalgic kind of way, but I am unphased.
Am I fearful of the repercussions of my actions? I’d hate to think so.
With each breath, I think about where to go next, where to venture, I am fleeting, just like time.
Am I letting life pass me by without stopping and appreciating it? I’d hate to think so.
Now, I am gone.
Flowers and I dance the synchronized dance of decay. I am returning to earth.
Am I the soil squished between your toes? I like to think so.
Every Sunday the swarm of mourning families flood in. I am left alone.
Am I alone because my children are out in the world living beautiful lives? I like to think so.
The stone identifying me is cleaned regularly, so as not to cover me up. I am still being taken care of.
Am I still important in some peoples eyes? I like to think so.
Time passes by and the visits stop altogether. I am forgotten.
Am I still on their minds? I like to hope so.
Once restless in youth, taking on the world in brave freedom and bold joy,
I am peaceful now in watching, guarding, guiding, and loving.
Morning’s raindrops fall softly,
music lilts through my five rooms,
bird chirps sail to the silver-gray clouds,
and I am at home.
Tea’s rosebuds and lavender linger on my tongue
while scents of mowed summer grass sneak through window shades,
this first morning after the first night after summer’s solstice
I am calmed and waiting.
I quiet myself as I wait and wonder.
Am I ready for this next journey in life?
Am I prepared to gracefully let go of who I once was?
I am still the dancer within these wobbling strides now.
Grown wiser, I am searching for a lesson to teach.
Like a horse galloping in wild abandon in red, gold, bronze fields then,
I am now a sea horse floating and flying among coral, blue, green reeds.
Daughter, Sister, Woman
I am all of these things
with out choice, designations from life
Teacher, Mentor, Leader
I am all of these things
because of need, others views of me
Poet, Artist, Creator
I am all of these things
by drive, instincts too strong to ignore
Tired, Lost, Alone
I am all of these things
in my spirit, deeply aching pain
Seeking, Pushing, Enduring
I am all of these things
as I peer into the mist of a future unplanned
Here… Still… Here
I am… through perseverance,
a strength intertwined with all the things I am
sj luellen
I’m gunnery the 8th, I am.
Gunnery the 8th, I am, I am.
He’s buried in the ditch, he is.
Buried in the ditch he is, he is.
And every time I think about him there,
I recall that we’ve done this before.
There’s always another friend to take that place,
And this is all one big mistake.
I’m gunnery the 8th, I am.
Gunnery the 8th, I am, I am.
It trickled down slowly
Then got united
Made a line
Started flowing
It passed through the dressing table
Where she combed her hair
It got out of the closed door
No one was outside
No one waiting for her
No one to ask
No one to hear
At last it reached the garden,
The soil hugged it
The soul of the dead girl sighed in relief
At least her blood found a home.
– Hardika Sharma
So much is left to “thoughts and prayers.” It's become meaningless like no one really cares. Empty words won’t stem the tide of mass shootings or suicides. What we need are better laws and bolder leaders to take up the cause. Gun reform. The time has come. No one lives free while in fear of guns. While the lobby that holds the purse strings of change keeps choking out progress and leaving blood stains. But the blood on their hands hasn’t troubled them yet. So we’re left with these feelings of despair and regret. We’re left feeling hopeless and helpless inside. So we send “thoughts and prayers” each time someone else dies.
| We do this I am convinced I am not the only one who wakes with a stiff shoulder From restless sleep on the bathroom floor And a refrain in my head pounding in rhythm with my panicked heart I am so sorry I am so sorry I am so sorry I am so sorry And I am always convinced I will die But it is just the world spinning Daring me to prove I really am what I say |