24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
My eyes are blurred with tears, the only color I see is red.
Thoughts of anger and vengeance are spinning in my head.
I trusted you with my heart, but you carelessly threw it away.
You entangled me in your lies and the sick games that you play.
After I’ve been scorned and the tears have all been cried.
I will find a way to make you pay, and you’ll wish that you had died.
Fiddle music
someone playing a jig
or dancing one
I think of my grandfather
immigrant Gramps,
Norwegian as they came
would dance a jig
of celebration;
in front of the TV following
a home team victory
in the aisles of the ballpark
after a home run
upon winning a game of
whist, or cribbage
when bowling a strike
always sans music,
though he would
sometimes whistle
Gramps would simply jig
when the mood struck –
musicless, endearing,
gleeful, dance-of-one
arms, fists, elbows,
pumping by his side,
his feet shuffling, then
big finish –
running one hand over his
head, smoothing out
what remained of his
silver, Vitalis slicked hair
I have tried a little jig
from time to time with little
positive reaction
I lack the moves, the look –
the suave panache
But I got the DNA
so there is always hope
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
My dad wanted an Irish wake when he died
A real one he said
The kind where the friends and family get drunk
Tell stories and laugh
And perhaps cause a fight or two
Fisticuffs for the deceased
Something John Wayne would have done in The Quiet Man
No tears, no regrets, no false sympathies
No parades of mourners lining up for one last look
At the body
Only camaraderie, bravado, and a little bit of excess
His way of dying with dignity
But when my dad did die, after his body broke down
And the signs he ignored for so long
Came around with a balance due
We failed him
He laid in an open casket, and we all took our turns
His face immaculate, his hair coiffed
His body so carefully staged for the auction to come
“Beautifully preserved recently deceased male, who wants to open the bidding?”
And the mourners came
They came with carefully measured solemnity
They got their cheap thrill
They hugged, they cried
All in defiance of my dad’s order
He must have been pissed off
Ready, like Wayne’s character Sean Thornton
To start the fight when a fight was necessary
But not today, Dad, not today
I spoke, I can’t recall what I said exactly
But I mentioned that he loved John Wayne movies
The swagger, the no bullshit persona
Which made a few people laugh
Because they knew it was true
That’s who my dad wanted to be
The soul of an Irishman
Living in his Ecuadorian and Mexican body
He will always be that to me.
a post marathon feat
baked potatoes
now grilling the meat
its been my honor
sharing the gift
and motivating others
is really neat.
my thanks and adieu
to all you fine folks
it’s the first time my feed
has had all clean jokes.
congratulations my new friends
and carry on the tradition.
its been a blast to write and listen.
fin
HOUR TWELVE
her agate breasts weaves songs
from the barren verses
her hands sewed memoirs
from the leftover yarns
her solitude harvests warmth
from the carcasses,
of
desires and naiveté
the imagery of life looks
fragile, morbid
yet beautiful!
Copyrighted by Ruchi Chopra, 2017.
Time is
slipping away
each day once gone
never exists again.
Sunrise is different
in time and beauty
hours pass too quickly
Infants become toddlers
toddlers become preschoolers
preschoolers to kindergarten
Wow, where does the time go?
Elementary and middle school gone in a flash.
Graduating from High School
Deciding on college
Oh no, where did my little girl go?
Where do I go to my love, my one
To find your dancing soul, when day is done
I dance to your music, I hear your song
‘Tis a merry jig, I surrender, dancing along
Like a swallow on high on a mid-summer’s night
I dance, I dance, and my mind takes flight
You won’t be caught, ’tis against your will
But the song and the dance you are playing still
The music is wicked, the rhythm is cruel
The words of the song say I’m the fool
Faster and faster I blindly twirl
Your cadence enticing, my dizzy heart awhirl
I know you’re not real, I know you’re not true
Still I choose to dance this merry jig with you
And as the fiddle’s forlorn last note is played
I know I should be, but I’m not sorry I stayed.
Fiddle dee
fiddle them
happy happy joy joy
dancing the Jig here I come
Joyful hoppin’
Heritage layed
celebration time
Ireland defined
As I merrily move
Learning the custom
Knowledge well spent
Young, I lived the harmony of innocence,
heard stunning things, beheld new wonders,
built fleeting empires in the clouds,
felt the freedom of sailing ships on the wind.
Immersed in the serenity of a pond at sunrise
I felt strength in the pinks, oranges, reds . . .
Awed as they awoke the world to the glorious
splendors of nature’s gifts.
The taste and smell of freshly baked bread
Slathered with churned butter, cool from the spring house
And homemade may haw jelly, from wild fruit
Make my taste buds yearn for its return.
I remember holding acorns, listening
As they told glorious tales of the ages.
And I remember hearing raindrops sing.
Oh! What wondrous sights they have seen.
Mature, I reflect on those wonders,
with love and joy in my heart.
At peace with understanding of my life,
I ask, “Are those things still there?”
Turn me widdershins,
take the breath from
my chest, peel me in
side out, a fraction
of who I could have been.
Turn me widdershins,
pluck the grey from
my scalp, boil it
in oil, deep fried
meaning, crust on
seasoned cast iron,
mirror image of my intent.
Turn me widdersins,
and leave the scarf
around my brow so I
can pretend I’m blind–
I can see underneath
if I tilt my head just right.
Turn me widdershins,
take what I earned, what
I fought for, and burn
it in my front yard,
ignoring my cries while
I cook fried chicken inside.
Turn me widdershins
and give back what I lost
to cheap beer and
Marlboro Milds, the years
before my first child,
spectrum miracle I never expected.
Turn me widdershins
and believe me when I
speak of sacrifice and lace,
an unspoken apology,
please don’t make me
say it. Love me anyway.
Turn me widdershins,
turn back the years until
I’m young again, a full
person under law, before
my skull was split and spliced,
when I knew what I wanted.