24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
it roamed the earth searching for a dream, its tongue flickered deep into the soil
flicking it into piles, growing hills, its body swam through the land
leaving crevices and gullies, to be filled with the endless tears cried by the night. its
lost scales forming mountain ranges that spaned the southern land.
-s.j.duncan-
A symbol of purity and grace
A noble legend was born
I speak of none other
Than the graceful unicorn.
He had a coat so snowy white
And a preference for maidens fair
The brave would thus assemble
Only if they dared.
With nets flung wide, the hunters
Would taunt the kingly beast
With the help of a pure virgin
In their grasp the beast would cease.
As time went on the numbers curtailed
Of the creature strong and true
Until the day the unicorn
Vanished from their view.
So people can you listen
And learn from the unicorns plight
Never hunt the majestic likes
Of the unicorn for spite.
We shall search until we find,
all the cities left behind.
Floods of water,
floods of sand,
erased the people, hid the land.
The tales are told of near perfection,
yet their presence defies detection.
From the tales that you have heard,
do you believe a single word?
Perhaps simply a teaching tale,
a reminder that life and things are frail.
The myth allows us all to feel,
that something dreamed of can be real.
Yet one thing is true for us on earth,
we’ll all experience death and birth.
So cities come and cities go,
as we will too.
When?
We don’t know.
Close to a century ago
Seems shorter though
Eyes wide and ambitions high
Adrenaline on over drive
Toes & Fingers
Aging appendages becoming
Independent leaning in
All sorts of directions
Flexing the right foot
Is a knobby enterprise
With casual cracking
Amusing though painful
Joints are becoming round
As youth disappears
Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?
Be right up your street!
Hey, It’s not my idea –
but it is you know, kinda cute.
I’m onto you, little miss Smart Arse,
with your Johansson skin & your ‘Come here’ giggle,
and those perfect eyes all Helloooey & smiley,
that chin so proud & cuppable!
With that face always there, as though you mean it!
I do! I do – though I’m not entirely sure
what I do mean or in fact
what I’ve done to make you act like this?
No? Yeah? ‘Not entirely sure’?
Like you don’t know,
with your niceness and instant wake-up positivity,
your weekend hips
and those, those
undefeatable things, all, just, all…
What, these? Breasts? Mammaries?
Boobs? Tits? Bazonkas? Fresh, wet, puppies?
Ah, I see what you’re doing now!
I see what’s going on!
Distracting me with an ambush grin!
Next you’ll be telling me that
you actually like me being around?
Start employing your feminine gills
Guiles?
Gills! Ills! Wiles! And that girl power thing –
where you make me question if I should defend you
so if you got picked on
you’d do some of your special Kung Fu
and try not to laugh when I end up in casualty!
You want to protect me?
Bless! That’s sooo nice!
But you don’t need to, honestly.
I just…
What? What now ? ‘I just’ what?
You waiting for me to confess?
Bare my soul? Tell you something
you prob’ly already know?
Tell you how I can’t live without you?
How my life’s got so much better
since you’ve put the rugs straight and
thrown the blown tins so I don’t get
another dose of food poisoning?
That I hate it when you go away
and when you do a big shop you take so long
I feel like my lungs’ve turned inside out?
That I only stop feeling sick when
I can hear you breathin’?
That I fucking Love You?
Is that it?
That what you wanna hear?
Don’t be daft, honey –
I know that already.
You show me every day.
I do?
You do.
Well, what are we talking about, then?
I really, really don’t know.
On a Friday evening in August
we walked to the garden in Grandma’s back yard.
The children were treated to fresh tomatoes,
wrapped in waxed paper, salted by the shaker from the kitchen.
Looking forward to walking to the near-by creek
where they caught frogs, put them in Mason jars,
covered the jars with lids, punched holes on top.
What is the family mystery beloved because it takes
place at Grandma’s house, and happens on a steam filled evening.
Fruit, vegetables, jars of tomatoes, children using elbows to
get closer to frogs from the creek.
Is this memory a true one or a wish made when we are too old for mystery
involving the field, sunshine, Mason jars, laughter without cares?
The edge of this mystery is a darker recollection of loss, the hidden
story unrevealed that blocks the mystery we use poetry to disguise.
Old Air
Painted shut for decades
The old farmhouse windows
Hold wavy glass perhaps
One hundred years old
Remaining closed in spring
The bedroom stuffs up
With air that has been
Sitting since winter
Fans are placed to keep
The idea of fresh new air
But it is a ruse for
Those who know
Years of complaints
Matter little now as
They have grown old
With the air in the room
A tribute to Ralph Waldo Emerson,
One of the truest romantics and academics in literature.
“Love’s hearts are faithful, but not fond…” – Celestial Love
“Take me fishing, brothers
The gods promised a bountiful catch
But we must leave now.”
The four brothers paddled
a short distance from shore
When their longboat stops abruptly
“Row fast, harder.
I’ve caught a large one,”
The three oldest brothers row harder,
Not noticing the dropped anchor,
And the islands rising from the ocean.
The youngest brother turns
And looks at the chain of islands.
And smiles.
Aloha.