Hour 24:What I See
Pink skies silhouette my view—
Blue mountains, silver water too.
Street lights usher out the night,
Red eyes, turning off my sight.
Thoughts on the Passing of the Storm (Hour 24)
Returning to thoughts of moist earth,
the thunderstorm has come and went,
Its smell hinted before the first poem I wrote
And now here, composing the last poem for this day,
I write of the puddles it left outside my window.
I write for the heavy boughs of drenched leaves,
a deeper green awakened by the adorning droplets of water.
I write of the daybreak, still blue and grey,
cloaking every familiar shape I can detect,
Everything that stands outside is wet,
cool, dripping, awaiting the rise of the sun.
For a storm did come,
and it sloshed its thunder across 24 pages,
Drenching each hour with romantic saturation,
And like the nature outside my window
My mind is wet,
cool, dripping in blotches of ink, awaiting the rise of the sun.
I write for the circular pools of sky scattered across the ground,
Crystal clear rainwaters reflecting the morning clouds,
That when angling my sight just right, they only refract emitting morning light,
And so I see streaks of silver waterlight shining across the ground.
And in my head there just might,
catch shimmer a few ounces of streaking light,
enough to capture an idea worthy enough to write,
And appreciate the storm that was here.
Hour Twenty-Four
The vision will die
if you do not rest,
if you do not give in to real dreaming,
the dream will end.
The light casts elegant shadows across the grass, the hedge
Dulled by the grey yesterday, the colours are radiant by contrast
Back to daylight, beginning again, for most
But, rest now
The vision will die,
The dream will end,
My friend, oh my friend.
I am Sacred Life
Looking beyond the fields I see a woman who is unafraid and ignorant to her outer beauty.
She runs toward the fire because life’s boundaries do not exist.
There is an unseen power she holds close to her heart
to love her is to know her true identity.
She is the protector of those who can see her passion.
Her creativity is what maintains her resilience.
Her secret weapon is humility.
Searching high because she has lived low.
A student in the classroom of life
She has become the master of the lessons taught and the mentor to those who truly want to know life’s sacred journey.
Hour 24 – Prompt 24 – A relaxed evening
It is 5.30 pm on a breezy Sunday evening
with the branches and leaves of tall trees
dancing outside my window. The air has
a fragrance of moist Earth, lingering
from recent rain shower
People are walking, couples side by side
Children are accompanying their parents,
as they go out. Some elderly people are
sitting on the benches, enjoying the wind
and conversing about life
Many children have gathered in the park and
their shouts can be heard, as they play.
A few on the slides, some on the see-saw,
some playing catch-catch, some playing
badminton and some exchanging Pokemon cards
The sun is obscured by the clouds, given
the rainy season. Daylight will turn to
dusk within an hour. The atmosphere is
relaxed, before the start of work week
tomorrow. And I sit by the window, writing…
(c) Vijaya Gowrisankar
Hour Twenty four The city sleeps
24
The City Sleeps
by Paul Robert Sanford
Traffic on Brush Street has slowed
from 2000 an hour at rush hour
to a speeding car every few minutes.
A bus goes past on its way to the Greyhound Station
The pointed evergreens are a black shadow against a charcoal sky.
In the federal building’s twin towers a few floors are lit,
probably some cleaning crews,
although it could be the government at work.
It’s 8 am in Washington DC.
My busy intersection has three tall streetlights
that serve as my nightlight.]
In their glare a lone pedestrian crosses the street,
crossing into shadow and out of sight.
The bars are closed.
Hours ago a flock of happy young people walked
along the deserted streets on their way home from the club.
My neighbors have their porch lights on
while the rest of the house sleeps.
Parked cars wait patiently at both curbs,
hoping not to get run into by some drunk
confused by the lane change.
In the distance the red lights atop the loading cranes
at the waterfrdont blink and dance.
Itd is a good time to have a warm bed to retreat into.
A lonely time to be out in the sleeping city.
Changing Horizons – Hour Twenty Four
So much changed this year –
My horizons were rearranged
When the fancy new build
Drew curtains across my field of vision
And the old lifeboat station was taken away
Bit by bit,
Day by day,
I can still just about see the ocean,
Pretentiously adorned with several boats on
Like costume jewellery
To gild the lily quite unduly.
The benches punctuate the sea wall
To commemorate Sids and Normans and Arthurs,
People’s brothers and best friends and fathers.
The old lobster pots on the corner mark a chapter break,
But there’s a notice to say somebody will soon take
Those away too
Unless someone raises an objection
With a valid interception.
The pages stacked against the sea soon
Will be all blank
With nothing left to tell a story
Or to really interest me
To be frank,
And that eight mile stretch
To somewhere different
Has me instantly a kvetch –
Oh to be o isolated is such a wretch,
Whatever was I thinking?
It’s enough to set anyone off drinking
Until, inevitably, I am lured back
By another claret sunset
Most magnificent .
Then I’m once again madly intoxicated
By this little scene, which only three hours ago, I hated.
Hour 17
“Excuse me Ma’am may I get you a drink”
Her face young or was it the same, as mine?
Where were we?
Trapped in a metal box seeming to go somewhere
Clouds and land the size of pins
We’re flying
“Ma’am?”
“Coffee, please – and black” I jumble out
Taking in my surroundings
Coffee helps
No one else on this plane
How long have I been out?
I do not remember purchasing this flight.
Coffee helps
And the lady seemed to look just like me, twenty?
I do not remember much of anything
There was not much really to remember
What belongings did I bring?
Did I pack anything?
Surely I must have left some of the memories alone
To be dead and destructive for, no one else’s home
Perhaps it is I, no belongings, only carrying me
But then again waking up to reality
At thirty I can surely say I wasn’t driving this ship
Flying this plane
I’ve truly no idea how I got to this place
A miracle would be too hard to reach
Mentally, for some people
But it itself is an explanation when the first thought I have
After waking up in the middle of being here
At least, somewhere on this Earth
Is having an answer prepared for anyone who should ask
Old habits die hard it is best to simply repurpose the intent of them
I know coffee helps. I know i’m alive and well, God is good and must be piloting.
Fear of Silence
I understand the fear of silence
I now choked down the thought
Spent waiting in anticipation
For other shoe to drop
Hidden in that void
Where soul should find it’s asleep
Instead is deafened mind
In pounding of heartbeat
Raw nerve vibrate
Staccato on the pulse
Crackle with confusion
Leave you at a loss
Direction ever lacking
Bounce one to the next
Putting out the fire
Insanity has set
Desert Tableau
Monsoon yearly comes
Clouds over the desert
From the mountains comes
Riding winds down slope
Rain to bring new life
Plants open to chance
Will this day be theirs?
Two months it does lasts
Storms this way and that
Some years none falls here
But there, there it falls
This year is their turn
The desert seems dry
Rain brings life to all
Not all every year
Deserts wait their turn
This year or next year
The advantage theirs