24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The best citrus
grows on the trees
that still grace
Marjorie’s old place
at Cross Creek.
In the evening
you can stand
on the bridge
and hear frogs
by the dozen.
Daytime, visit
the garden and see
chickens and mallards
among the tomatoes.
But to fill winter jars
with delectable orange,
grapefruit, and kumquat
delight, you must lock your
elbows, grasp the long poles,
and pull with all your might.
He said “I didn’t mean to.”
He said “You know I would never hurt you.”
He said “But I love you”
Everything he said was a lie.
From the beginning it had all been a fucking lie.
He planned this.
From the moment he called and asked if his “best friend” would mind bringing him a pack of cigarettes and a soda and he would pay me when I got there.
It was a lie and I was simple and naive enough to believe it.
Captain save a hoe to the rescue.
See girl that’s why your mama always told you to sit your ass down.
Always told you to stop trying to have friends all the time.
I should have listened to mama.
Now I’m laying here sobbing and saying “no”.
Now I’m stuck.
Assaulted first by your hands.
Hands always so rough from years of farm work. A good country boy. I used to think they were nice. Now so rough, could they be knives instead? Because they are killing me. Cutting me to shreds but I cannot die. Why can’t I die? I have never wanted to more than in This Moment.
A mouth.
The same mouth spewing Venom.
Toxic words.
“I love you.”
A mouth replaces the knives.
A mouth soils me further.
Trash.
Broken.
Damaged goods.
That’s what I am now.
A final death blow.
The dagger to my heart.
Why is it called a penis?
It should be called a shotgun because with each pump it is spraying lead everywhere.
Shrapnel everywhere.
Explosives everywhere. Live bombs.
I am now a war zone.
The dead and broken lay on this battlefield. A Battlefield sopping wet with blood. Gettysburg 3.0.
Death has Dominion here now.
A final blow.
A gift you left inside me. Meant to grow and torture me for all eternity.
“I loved you.”
“I missed you.”
“Did you like it as much as I did?”
Shotgun to the Head.
I’m dead.
Capitalism is the triumph of the gang.
The starting point, the domination of concepts, only mystifies the passage of time.
Can you avoid the dirt in intercourse?
Can you lose this fixed character?
The human community conditioned by the material community derives to valorize itself.
So, as to guard against a veil of modesty, we must seduce in order to recruit.
We must belong to the desire for so called practical men.
Frogs!
Each wear their slimy raincoat
Throwing rotten tomatoes
One mystery evening
Through our yard of steam
Towards jars of fireflies
Suddenly perculating
Green jumping elbow
Too fastly closely
We children run in wonder
How did they find us?
Write a poem that involves some kind of ancient myth. The myth can be from any cultural background or origin, but I am not interested in modern myths. The older the better.
The poem can go into the details of the myth and be a retelling of sorts, or it can just borrow a mythic element and place it the modern world. The details are entirely up to you.
What a mystery camping night
Storm clouds gather,
Rainy evening
Frogs ribbiting
searching for my raincoat
I let the worry live and then die
as the cooling evening
breeze tickles
my chin
and the mosquitoes chase
my tasty legs
Oh this humidity
Sweat, steam
Running down my elbows
Oh well!
My, first night campsite
this night I
shall sleep well.
The sun has set
the day is coming to an end
My struggle isn’t done with me yet.
determined to bring me to my knees
I will journey on with
every tired muscle and bone
towards the finish line…
until struggle takes a bow.
j.r.m©
Anathema
Dear cursed li’l frogs
Ye hold the evening in your mouths
For heaven’ll smile at your ugliness –
The mystery of your beauty unbound,
You’ll kiss the dawn of freedom.
Don’t fret li’l ones
O’er plums and tomatoes
For there are things sweeter –
The melody of your voice unsung,
You’ll touch the jars of grace.
Wait li’l ones, for your raincoat moment;
With timeless motion
You’ll find your true love –
Who’ll take away the curse
And you’ll turn into handsome princes.
Hour 14
I cheated, knowingly so
This is a new sort of game
Posting exactly the number up to the hour
Somehow getting all the way to fifteen
In ten minutes
I know i’m cheating
I layed on a bed
No, I already wrote about this
I layed on a bed
No, I already wrote about this
I cheated, knowingly so
Made a man mad
Because this always could just flow
How boring introspection is when you’re self ascribing
The bed was a doctors table
And the man I did not know
Someone who wanted to connect
But instead I took a low blow
Carelessly, cheated him from self-discovery
Slapped him across the face of his ego
Because he wanted to really just be a poet
Instead of a doctor and if I had not cheated
We would have related but no
New to this sort of game has been the only mantra I know
Things take time
And that is actually okay
Perhaps I should have told him
Writing was the only way out of living
But I cheated – God gave me an exit gift
I cheated. Were either of us poets? No.