24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Through the Window
Through the window the world is seen
The horizon sparse orange
Is dispersed at the mountainous bends,
The returning birds making up the skyline
And monsoon clouds covering the length
Ready to burst upon the yielding earth;
The acacia leaves shaking in response
To the competing winds.
Hour 24
@varenyas
mum and I delayed our posting as we are on my brother’s laptop and he wanted to download 22 films instead!!!
Love me for what I am,
Don’t try to change me much
and I’ll try not to change you much.
If you don’t respect this, we might
have couple problems and lose what we have.
I don’t want to lose you, but I also don’t want to
lose myself; is that clear? Will you respect our pact?
Smells like rubber
And sweat
Barely able to lift my head
I did this to myself
Deep breathings again
Knowing I am sent
And it is much easier when the house has burned down
Smells like fresh grass
And tea
Not a memory
Someplace outside of myself
Nose breathing
Knowing I am sent
And the burning house is far from now
Smells like hope
And the freedom
Both internal
Fueling myself
Whole body breathing
Going only fulfills being sent
The burning house now a forest playground
I heard the crack
Within her voice
Speaking words
That weren’t her choice
Time will tell
The truth you hid
Come unearthed
Come unhinged
Power struggle
Play no more
Split your tongue
And make it sure
I proved the done
The distance fought
Now in your web
Leave you caught
The robes behind
Which you hide
Soaked in blood
While innocence cried
Prove without
Shadow doubt
I am the Force to
To block you out
Banish thrice
And thrice again
Alone you stand
In your insane
Days that were wide open expanses to be filled with the decisions of what kids came out to play.
Ideas that were not judged by reality or merit, simply accepted because you said them.
The government of childhood that did not rely on votes but took into consideration the weakest and let them be catcher or everlasting twirler or use the chalk to draw the hop-scotch boxes.
The common sense of kindness that brought a million waxy Dixie cups to the sidewalks to be filled from Tupperware pitchers of sticky, colored, sugar-rich beverages.
Taking turns when the toy was not even your own and being allowed to injure yourself on the neighborhood stilts, pogo stick or rusty scooter.
It was the earliest lessen that freedom comes with costs,
the ones that taught us all that the exhilaration and possibilities were worth the risk.
All the kindness we were born with,
cooked out of us by an education that creates a competition between us
and lets us know that life is a reward system for right answers.
Adulthood is the struggle between our memory of what life was like when right and wrong was not the measure of an idea,
before the chafing struggle of the nagging feeling that what you’ve been instructed is right is questionable.
Perhaps adults just need a “do-over”.
Out the window of the studio,
is a row of large evergreens and the sky.
It’s dark now, but the day
is just beginning to brighten.
The sequoias on the left
have grown more than thirty feet
taller since I first met them.
There is a scraggy willow
who shades the walkway,
and a mountain ash.
But the window focuses
in on the sky. Hundreds of swans
have flown overhead at night,
and in daytime, ravens and wrens.
From this window, each view
carries something new, a bird,
a leaf, a color. Right now,
the sky is changing from
the infinite night sky to
the skin of the exosphere
that binds our planet together.
I can’t imagine anything
better than that.
Huge gratitude and thanks to Caitlin and Jacob, my Guildy Poets team, and all of you. What an amazing Poetry Marathon year! 🙂
Who were you that I saw,
A face among many,
In that passing crowd?
Who were you that I saw,
Still haunts my dreams,
To this very day?
Who were you that I saw,
Anchors me to the past,
Never letting go?
Who were you that I saw,
I blame for all that’s wrong,
To this very day?
Who were you that I saw,
That has me stuck
In this prison of my mind?
Who were you that I saw,
This phantom of my misfortune …
Or, did I?
I remember nothing,
And everything.
I regret nothing,
Yet everything.
© 2017 S Phua
Very little (if any) poetic merit in this, my final poem for the 2017 Poetry Marathon. But an awful lot of love.
When I look at the old farm around me
Three things I never fail to see:
I accept how it is, I remember how it was,
and I still dream of how it will be.
This is where I’ll end my days.
This is where I made my start.
This is where I have found my peace.
This is where I’ll rest my heart.