24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Fell on my ass
But the best part
Was standing on glass
Made it look like art
Dropped phone on my face
Not in the usual way
Wrapped it in lace
Made it look like faberge
Melted plastic in my ear
You will laugh for sure
It was Richard Gere
Made it look like couture
Hour Twenty Three
Missing
by Paul Robert Sanford
Body by Rubens
Personality shaped by the suburbs of the valley.
Sweet, bright, with lovely soft childish nasal voice.
College sweetheart, first wife,
divorced when her father died
Unsettled child, guided by her mother
happily humming to herself
playing the piano in her little cottage
I never stopped loving her,
just put up a wall of hurt and anger and feigned indifference
between us to make myself safe.
She died before we were forty
her ashes were scattered over an unknown field
I never attended her memorial or visited her grave.
I wonder how we would have been together in our old age?
Almost done can’t believe I have made it this far!!! I thought for sure I was going to drop out and just go to bed at some point but nope I’ve got this.
Text You Close
Missing you is weird
We were never very close
But those last few months
Something was different
You became someone I could talk to
About this thing I’m still working on sharing with others
You understood me in a way that they don’t seem to
I want to be able to hang out and actually talk
But for now we will have to text
I hope that it keeps bringing us closer these screens
Every night
I long for you,
Day time too.
Tonight especially
Or is it morning?
The dark deceives
But not you, my love
You are my life
My one true love,
Faithful as the moon
When I’m weary
Or merely bored
In the dawning light
At midnight too
I miss you, dearest
I long for your embrace
In sheets of silken sigh
Pray you come to me
After the last uttered rhyme
When words fail me
Even more than now
Come entomb me
In your deathly delight
No need for dreams
Just take me now
A little while still
Close my eyes with your kiss
Sandy sweet
My darling
Hold me in your arms,
Dearest sleep.
Emma the first character
I couldn’t help but fall in love
It was amidst the
first time I couldn’t
help but fall in love
held by the elegance of
the character of Emma
to be loving yet possessed
with inner grit and esteem
To have time for myself
and not let others dictate
what Is wanted of myself
each encounter with Emma’s
acquaintance
held my breath expecting love for her
as I did from myself
but as the pages flipped
I learnt to wait
for the moment
right and perfect.
Copyright © Snigdha
You are gone now on your journey away from me,
i miss you the little boy, full of questions and mischief,
the serious teenager, dressed as a goth,
so full of music and fun.
Still talking , close, trusting.
You are on your journey now away from me
but with your family,
partner and children and i miss them too
the mischievous little boys and the girl i never got to meet.
So much pain and trauma and pain and loss for you.
You are gone now on your journey without me,
i still wave at you at times, we skype, we talk,
we meet up for a few hours or days.
We share bits of our lives but miss out on so much.
Are we still close,
something time and distance can never break, we are indeed,
still close.
I miss us
Can this be the shortest poem ever?
I miss us
is such a long poem but;
But it may be shortened
to fit the one thing I miss about us;
If I mention it,
night would turn twilight,
day would end in a buzz;
because the thing I miss about us
is unmentionable,
just an experience;
You know it,
I know better
because it is me who misses that us
and the thing it does
this sweatshirt smelled like campfire
even though there’s no tent nearby
I it wore to bed to remember
our camping trip to the lake
a weekend for two
with morning coffee made over a campfire
and evening stars for story telling,
oh, I miss
not my sweatshirt
or its fainted wisp of campfire
but being alone with you, my love
and coffee by the lake
And that this place may thoroughly be thought
True paradise, I have the serpent bought.
John Donne
I carry darkness with me to the brightest day, when,
falling from my careful grasp,
it tumbles – careful and complete –
into the moments of the earliest hour.
This small dark fragment is not something that I know I hold;
it curls between my fingers – this bead of almost amber –
bearing a tiny grain of sorrow within its warmed shell.
I know that, as I rest, it will seek again my sleep-numbed fingers
and nestle there. They will close upon it easy as upon a thought
so that I – unknowing – stretching into the day to greet the morning,
I will hold it once again
and I will let it fall.