24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The say teachers like me the best,
But they use me less,
I just become a symbol of their profession,
Placed on a variety of materials,
I assume it isn’t their intention,
Kids like in slices,
Dipped in caramel,
My juices squeeze out creating a beverage,
Used as a leverage to keep doctors away,
Comes in many varieties,
Floral to crunchy to sweet,
A nice quick treat,
Here Ms. Applebottom,
An apple for the teach.
Some wounds
refuse to heal
because
we have yet to learn
to stop
prematurely picking
at the scabs
barely crusted over
or we unwittingly
shift our full weight
grinding joints
still freshly inflamed
the heat of the
irritation
cannot blow cool
so the wound remains
I’m just sitting here, watching the day draw to its end. It’s happening sooner and sooner now that September is here.
From my window, I see my little half-circle of sunflowers–both real and metallic. There’s also a windmill, a birdfeeder, and an LED light that is on a post that illuminates these beauties at night.
Many visitors come to my garden. In the summer, they have to fend for themselves because my hubby thinks they’re capable of hunting what has been provided for them. In the less productive months though? He keeps that feeder filled–well, at least until the squirrels discover it.
The past few weeks, the yellow finches have been around often. It’s mesmerizing to watch them flit about, land on a sunflower, lean their heads over to eat the seeds from them, while the wind or their weight tosses them gently about. They don’t care. They don’t mind. They get their mouths filled, chew, ponder, spit out the yuck, and then go to the next flower head and repeat.
Hmn.
When the winds blow? They stay firm. I haven’t seen a finch–or any other bird for that matter–fall. They don’t even seem to exert themselves into the hanging on part.
I am learning a lot from the finches.
Eat. Enjoy. Get rid of the waste. Move on.
What a lesson.
I ripped the elbow of my jacket
on a broken lightbulb
hidden in a bucket
that smelled vaguely of cinnamon.
It was in that carport
down by the bayou,
where the mural of the dying elk,
blood the color of beets,
stares as if pleading with me,
in his death tremor,
to be set free.
The Unknown
Walk with me
Into the world of unreality
Where everything is impossible
And nothing is real
Take my hand
Trust me to lead you safely
To a destination you have only dreamed about
If you want to see what is down the path
You must first let someone
Open the right gate
I took the worn path.
My life has been a struggle
by the choices I have made.
I’d do it again.
For conflict builds character,
And I do not fear conflict.
Your binding is loose
Your pages yellowed
A scribble on the title page
From owners past
You were there when I was alone
And far from home
When I needed to get away
You offered an escape
The many hands that have held you
Left their mark
And gratitude for company
When the world was dark
in a simple black pen
ballpoint or gel
Bic or Papermate
Sharpie or Pilot
magic resides
It translates thoughts into words
words into images
images into feelings
There is power in a simple black pen
A power to build
A power to destroy
A power to create what was not there before
A simple black pen
ballpoint or gel
carries within itself
a whole world of magic
Dark, jewel-like drops of honey clung to my lips,
like crystalline amber, they glistened and sparkled
with the throaty hum of bees, incessant droning
drowning out all other thoughts from my head.
I plunge a hand straight in; bee charmer,
lover and friend of insects, what do I do,
how do I, in all my silent giant sleepyness
hold them in my thrall? A casual flick of the wrist,
and you held the comb aloft, casual gentility of mcuh loved work
and let its’ smells envelop me. Is this what it feels like,
surrounded by sisters, aunts, and daughters,
humming and dancing as honey swells and comb builds,
surrounding with love and swarming her with adoration,
a Honeybee I am, a little honey queen, and in his arms,
I spin and hum and dance and make the sweetness home.
Our love is silence on a noisy day
My hand in yours as you walk away
A kiss on the wind searching for a dream
Being there when l need you