24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
the morning is tequila-sunrise orange but the dusk takes on the day straight no chaser spins light liquid gold into starlight into poems the dusk is a writer like me I take my mental illness dry maybe a little bit of my childhood for color I always say I love you too quickly shock the starlight into repression drown in liquor in depression in purgatory until the haze recedes and sobriety filters in slowly like light through blinds that weren’t shut until four in the morning
I was looking forward to the weekend
after a hectic week, juggling work
and traffic due to torrential rains
The forecast predicted a breather
Nature enjoys throwing in a mystery
The day had been relatively clear
We ventured out in the evening, to play
in the park and visit a nearby mall
And then it poured – with umbrellas
flying off under the force of wind
The raincoats were tested by the storm
The children huddled together under shade of shops
We got down from the auto rickshaw and raced
the last few steps, when I slipped and fell
On instinct, I put the weight of my body
on my elbow. And ouch! that really hurt
A few frogs jumped in front of us, and we
stared in awe. Back home, we raided the jars
for a few biscuits. I boiled the tomatoes
and we drank the steaming pepper-garnished tomato soup
(c) Vijaya Gowrisankar
and then it happened. by evening, they told us we were no longer
children. we could not chase frogs and follow their hop, wear pink
raincoats with matching boots and fake ear drops and the worst
was, from now on, our hearts would be kept in overnight jars to harden
in tomatoes and salt. only in acid and tang can preservation occur, they
insisted. for us, who skipped, why did we trade for a chewed up crayon,
was mystery, when we wanted to dream in pisces, speak with sage beasts, and
burn tongues in chocolate steam. life would be magic as an adult, they nodded,
just believe. so we learned the practice of peculating with striped suits and lost
our childhood, its friends and sugar cane. and never scraped an elbow again.
8:30 PM Perspectives
Can we really see things as they are
or
Are we slaves to our own filters and the way we see things
Or
The way that we want things to be?
Can we truly listen and hear what someone is saying without expectations and our past awarenesses about them?
Is it ever possible?
Are we doomed to be slaves to our own thoughts and awareness?
He said he would be back tomorrow
He said he would see us the next day
He wouldn’t have said that if he was planning this
People don’t say things like that if they’re planning on killing themselves
Could you ever tell when I told you that and in my head I was already thinking about how my life would end that night?
Pick up stix
Someone once told me if you think in rhymes
You have a mental issue
I rather differ
Poetry is a far more effective method of communication
And it helps me be okay with not actually trying
Pick up stix
Isolating a thought pattern
Selecting one
Without disturbing any others
When all I want to do is combine all the thoughts together
My favorite part was always dropping the
Pick up stix
To see where each one would lay
Which would nuzzle against the other
Which one would move if you dared prove your brother wrong
(Clearly a favored game of our multi-year mandatory, induced boredom)
I never really cared to win
Pick up stix
To pass the time
Instead of competition or advantage
I just never really tried
Left them there on the floor
Someone would say it was understandable
Pick up stix
That would be my therapist
I believe in the mystery,
—of what the frog choir sings
as they vibrate sound oscillating
breath from lung to vocal cords
in late summer evening light,
the throaty croaks in full sermon
at the pulpit of love.
—of how a wrist to elbow
measures the length of your foot,
or fingertip to fingertip is my height
And the width of your mouth
Maps the distance of pupil to pupil.
—of the steam rising from tomatoes.
Beans, grape, radicchio, cucumbers,
And basil after the mid-day heat-pour
Or the churning earthworm writhing
To the sound of five beating hearts.
—of the soulless men who’d peculate
Our children’s futures on a handshake
Rob their health for pocketed pennies
By those who love their babies too.
I lined the street with empty mason jars
The heat of the whiskey steamed the cold of the street
My raincoat torn
The evening brought the dark to me
That woman, a mystery
Turn to the drink to understand
The evening sounds of jazz squealing through the New Orleans streets kept the children alive and burning with heat. The unsettling energy was like fire beneath their feet generating instant mischief and moves so fast the music lost it’s beat.
The bayou is filled with mystery and gigantic frogs along the river. As they call for rain the children gathers jars to quiet the sounds of their dinner.
The gentleman laying under the stars considered the inquisitive minds of his nearby litter. Do they understand the life in the bayou and the death in the river.
The children approach his madness and wonder if this man has kept his promise and their reward.
The sudden quiet released whispers as he stood strong and tall against the midnight sky.
The gentleman released a ribbon of light and the children celebrated and one even cried for this was the greatest of gift of all as the illuminated path led them back to the very beginning of the afternoon sounds of smooth jazz.
Late evening in the country
is colored differently than in the city
the smog shrouds the colors that would be
in mystery. A mystery that the country sky
does not peculate. A wash of dark blues and violets
soft in the clouds with undertones of fuchsia.
a veritable palette. An artisan plate of deliciousness
that the cuisine of the city keeps masked in too much
oil. Out here frogs are frogs, in there frogs are roaches.
Out there steam rises in healthy billows blown away by the
Breeze. In there the steam petrifies.