24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Inspired by Kaichou Wa Maid-Sama!
I’m right in front of you
I know that you know
Yet somehow I’m still fighting
To be seen
I love you, I’ve told you so
Yet still you find it hard to believe
I’m just an annoyance, a burden
Something for you to easily toss aside
But I won’t leave you
No matter the cost
I don’t care if you hate me
I don’t care if you reject me
I love you, Misa.
Poem sixteen
Bummer
Lack of sleep catching up with me
Need to infuse my caffeine system
Maybe throw in some protein
A vegetable
Some inspiration
A song from Sound of Music
Sixteen going on Seventeen plays in my personal
brain music network
A few minutes ago it was Putting on the Ritz
The Peter Boyle Young Frankenstein version
My husband singing it as he struggles to find his muse
I need Starbucks
I need ice cream
I need a diligent house boy
I need sleep
The enemy sleep
It has ammo aimed at my weakening system
I should be writing from a fictional character’s point of view
Stuck somewhere between
Jane Eyre, Maria Von Trapp
And Frank Underwood
All I can do
Is feebly limp through sixteen
On my way to seventeen
Waiting for life to start
Putting on the Ritz
Maybe cheese on a Ritz
Dipped in coffee
The mosquito went on trial,
Accused of being a pest
And a nuisance
And a vagrant
Preying on human blood.
The plaintiff made opening arguments:
“Your honour,” they opened,
“The defendant has taken numerous blood samples from my client without their consent.
What’s more, the purpose and value of their existence is questionable.
It is only right, your honour, that they pay in equal measure
For the quantity consumed.”
The judge considered these arguments.
“And now, the defense will present its counter-arguments.”
And the mosquito, being a mosquito, said nothing.
And, being a mosquito, did not know it had to bring representation.
It was not even sure where it was.
“Very well, then,” the judge said, glaring judgmentally at the defendant.
The plaintiff crossed the floor,
And squashed the mosquito flat as a pancake.
“Court dismissed.”
my current situation in words fighting the urge to sleep.
the struggle is real.
Hold on
frail heart
we’re almost at the finish line.
The light at the end of the tunnel
is just in vision’s perception.
Don’t measure the miles to cover
or cower under the pressure
or give into sleep…
You may rest your weary head
at the end,
the end is near
the end is upon us,
don’t measure the distance
simply put one foot in front of the other.
j.r.m©
Mythic Tree in you and me.
Yggdrasil of nine realms be.
Whispering from ancient days,
Tree of wisdom’s true pathways.
Ashvattha, the Bodhi tree—
Enlightened Gautam under thee.
Some say peepul is your name,
Perhaps people are the same.
Ashvattha or Yggdrasil,
Whisper to us you are real.
Let enlightenment flow from thee,
For each of us a Bodhi Tree.
Life is not fair, for those who
come from the old country.
I can barely remember my father
but they say he was a fine musician,
a beautifully accomplished violinist.
Somehow he ended up in the barn,
at 3 a.m., where he played one last
strain of the “Ave Maria,” then put
his shotgun at his feet, where he
could operate the trigger with his
big toe, and BAM! he was gone.
They buried him at the crossroads
because suicides are not allowed
in the Catholic cemetery. My mother
and brothers did the best they could.
I tried to help them, becoming a
hired girl to one of the best families
in town. I thought the man who made
promises to marry me would help my
family, but he only made me pregnant
and left me, all alone in Omaha. This
good man, my husband, has given me
thirteen children, fourteen all together.
He raised my first child as his own, like
Joseph in the manger. All are in the book,
Leo the most famous. They called me Toni
in real life, but my literary name has more
pizazz than her book that won the Pulitzer Prize.
I watch my fathers beautiful bride, grow an ugly disposition,
as sickness came knocking stealing his love away and its
just the two of us I feel the menace in her gaze the jealousy
in her touch the threat in her words and l run, into the world l
have never seen, into poverty and hunger looking for a home.
I hid in an empty home, exhausted I sleep only to be woken
surrounded by a roomful of noisy men, black from the mines.
Fear beat faster my heart filling my ears, I calmed they quietened
an arrangement was made, I learned to clean, to be wild, to be free.
-s.j.duncan-
When I knew him in the playground, he cried easily.
Pretend games upset him;
his large eyes, luminous on the point of tears,
shone soft and bright.
But when he slipped, later,
out of uniform and nameless,
into the brutish, sweat-stained concrete cells
and played his own
thick brutal games with prisoners there,
it was the men who wept.
All I see day after day are these same white walls,
Or I escape from that room for a mere moment,
Then I get to run down the same halls,
Before being caught, dragged back, and served punishment.
I get to sit here, feeding my memories fade, while my mind runs wild and fragments.
When will the price for my one mistake finally be paid?
Maybe when my mind finally crumbles and collapses into its final madness-filled descent.
Through the canvas
Scars and lines
Bleed through
Only to appear
Outwardly
Young and rapturously
I mustn’t gaze
Upon that face
For
Hell will
pull me through