24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
centered in the sun,
yet whiter than a snow-filled
cloud, washed in suds of
silver clementine. masquerades her
smile as privilege;
a woman, one never wants
to be. perished is a goddess,
a tilted nose to scoff this, wearing
her shroud amongst guests
that are living. in whose room,
she waits, pending.
I thought I was ready
On Death, my ready quip if ever a question was posed on me:
“I am ready, anytime, anywhere. My only wish is
let it be an instant, painless going away.”
But my mettle was tested 2 days ago.
Going down from 18th floor of our building,
I noticed that the lift was acting strange.
True to form, a fast and sudden jolt downward and stopped abruptly
No indication on what floor, no sound nor motion, nothing.
I pressed the emergency button.
An alarm sounded but another heavy jolt
and downward motion followed again.
My composure was shaken with every jolt
and downward motion, of course.
Is this my end?
Although it’s instant (whew!) and painless (?),
I come to thinking that slow death is not my cup of tea too.
I again pressed the red button and another alarm sounded
but no help came and another jolt
and the lift stopped at the 5th floor and opened its door.
I immediately got out of the lift, dashed for the stairs,
and now the alarm is on.
This, I think, is His way of telling me –
“You’re full of yourself, here’s for your high talks”
All my bravado went down the drain
Proceeded to the stairs, a welcome sight!
Slowly, one step at a time (shaking), reached my floor, 2nd
Humbly, I declared that I am not ready as I claimed
I was a scaredy-cat, my knees shook and turned to jelly
Sat down on the steps and heaved a sigh of relief.
So, still humble and boast-less, mumbled a prayer
“Lord, let Your will be done.”
Act 1: Farmers Market
Sniff sniff smile, vine ripened tomatoes
Scratch scratch squeeze, hand-picked lemons
Act 2: Urban Kitchen
Wash and prep, peel and dice
Stir and season, into the salad bowl you go
Save the seeds for the rest of the show
Act 3: Concrete Jungle
City house, no yard, sketchy soil not meant for edible gardens
Salvaged seeds, rinsed and buried in pretty planters
Sleeping soundly, bathing in sunshine
Peeking slowly, stretching for support
Act 4: DIY Kitchen Scrap Garden
Weeks and weeks of scorching sun
Battling with hummingbird moths and green monster worms
Wishing for bees or breezes, hand pollinating instead
From seeds they sprouted, growing tall, bearing fruit
Ready for the next food adventure
Burning money by both ends is so much fun until there’s none left and it’s time to wake up with a hangover and go to work to earn money to burning it by both ends is so much fun
Her gaze fixed on this aphrodisiacal male,
Taking a tour outside – just outside this frame,
Her hem rising with the edges of her mouth
Skirts caught in a lascivious grasp
Lips now clasped
To erase a gasp.
With her free hand she relies on the table for stability,
Overcome with a burning fragility,
A quickness of breath,
A lust not suppressed,
Her eyes narrow in on her desire,
Her opal skin scorched white by fire,
And a delicate sweat
Dampens the curls on her neck,
As she waits for him
To come in.
Carmen waits for the guitarist to strum and pluck
While the other dancers sit
Clap
Stomp in unison
The singer wails *con tanto pasion
Egging Carmen on
To slam her feet on the platform
As she raises her left hand in the air with her fan in her right hand
She struts her fan open and waves her arms about to the singer’s moans
Carmen thrusts her body to and fro
Spins from one corner to the other
Contorts her body into a modelesque stance
Her dress seems to be made of wind and flames
Twirling her skirt open like a rose
Whirling her hand and fan wildly around the air above her head
And in one final pitched cry
In one final strum
One final pluck
Final stomp
She gently but forcibly moves her arms back to her sides
Closing the rose to rest
And back up again
Beautifully frozen
*is spanish for “with lots of passion”
Who is it she sees
Coming for thee?
Is that concern in your eyes
Or just your distain?
Might it be your husband’s approach to go to the play
Or is your lover coming to take you away
Will you soon smile as he arrives or turn away
And strive to leave.
I cannot tell what is in your mind
And you will not tell me you are not so inclined
Soon the answers will be known
When you no longer stand alone.
Artwork Haiku
Looking for her beau
She completely fails to see
He is watching her
Curves sit well on you
on your knobby fingers with sweet meat and pink fat,
a writer you must be weilding a feather for a pen
curves of flesh on arms intersect with shoulders
did you sit meditating squarely or kneading dough plenty gained
dimples inside elbows and in collars like small caves
curve of your nose pouts, curve of chin juts out
pinna of your ears neat strain neck
into cheeky tilt to look at something captive
That black eveing gown sits
darker on curve of breasts. its curvy cuts dipping into its cleaved groove
your paleness offset by stark darkness of a high round butt
you turn to watch something leftwards
your arms define the conflict
the right stands on tip-toes on table-top, yearning to steady the fate
while the left folds the gown slightly and drops down
in slight pause of the familiar being let behind
eyes fullstops
of pitch black under comma of equal shade
I stand alone, in an empty room, my gaze missing,
my hunger hidden, he paints my curves with delicate
lines, my nose demanding attention, the dress dark
and wanting against my pale skin waiting to be touched by
the maid has she peels me from this velvet concoction.
this portrait for the wall, will watch as l grow old.
-s.j.duncan-