24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Red, much red in the green forest.
It wasn’t a painter’s watercolour, it was
fire, real fire devouring nature.
Animals were fleeing,
trees were crying for help
and birds sang their last song.
But humans finally appeared
and the red was dispelled.
And so, the fresh green was saved!
Rhonda, my love.
This dress does you honor.
Revealing your soft, alabaster skin
The velvet is the perfect foil
To you auburn hair.
Rhonda, my dear
It gives me great pleasure
To take you to supper with me
Afterwards as we stroll past the shops
We will have a bit of ice cream to eat.
The clock moves slowly now
Almost standing still
The comments, the posts, the poems
Make little to no sense
My hand cramps from video games and typing
Cat left confused, not understanding his people at all
The snacks have been desecrated
The coffee has been weaned down in preparation for sleep
Yawns take the place of interest
Hour 22,
Inhibitions are gone
Taking common sense with it
They just packed their bags and left the building
All that remains are red eyes
Held open by will alone
Another poem published
Another struggle for words
A fist fight with perseverance
No giving up this close to the end
Kind of drab, the color of the wall.
The woman with the updo looks off
in the distance to her left, unsmiling.
She’s probably wondering why
the bouquet hasn’t been brought
to the table yet. She must be an early
bird. There’s no tablecloth, no candles.
Not even a doily. Just a strong white
woman in a long black dress standing
beside the unadorned table.
Or perhaps the woman waits,
impatient for someone to bring
the jewels she intended to wear.
The pearls for her neck and ears.
Where are they, and what of her shoes?
Oh, dear. This is turning tragic
before our eyes. Those uncomfortable
straps. The dreary wall!
By the way
I find a big bag of money
Falling from the sky
By the way
I look up to the clouds
In the sky
And I say
“give me more”
and I see a big smile
Suddenly, it’s raining
Moola and schillings
By the way
I am smiling
By the way
How strange
Memories linger
For years
So real it seems
You could touch
But dare not
Memories touch back
We are melancholy objects
mementos of lives long gone
our bodies remember what we forget
Every poet is a little closer to
God than a surgeon but
only one of us makes our readers believe
Worship the scalpel or the scale?
He digs out the bullet,
Pumps an empty stomach of pills,
And I wrote the truth
That put them there.
Gold straps support the black silk heart
across her porcelain skin.
The black silhouette narrows to her waist
And the beauty explodes across her hips
Defining the shapely physique
When you were alone,
you played the trombone
and made your cat Yaten groan.
We all understood
that you weren’t very good,
though if you could tell, it is not known.
You packed it away,
your loneliness at bay
and carried on without dismay.
But your thoughts never left it,
we’ve grown to accept it
that you pull it out on rainy days.