24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
It doesn’t start like this
Not with the soft centre
Not with the creamy texture of it
It’s never that simple
You can’t skip the shell
The crunchiness
The pleasant hardness
That keeps its shape
Please don’t ignore
The outer layers
Of baked goods
My friend tells me that she fears
bringing a child into this world
because of what the parasite might do
to her body.
Another laments
the financial burden it would entail
to invest into his offspring,
to feed,
clothe,
educate.
But me—
I fear that I cannot live up
to the responsibility of guiding a human life
through to adulthood.
If I learned anything from my mother, it is that
motherhood comes with great sacrifices.
Will I be able to sell them the world
the way my mother sold dilapidated homes
to men with deep pockets,
guiding their eyes away from scratched hardwood
to the seventh layer of new paint
in order to put grains in my stomach?
Even if I do as she did,
and use my own body to shield my children from the world,
will they be recovering from their childhood
in this monstrous world?
Inspired by “I AM ACCUSED OF TENDING TO THE PAST” by Lucille Clifton and “Good Bones” by Maggie Smith.
We crisscross patterns across the forest
a force lifts us into the air
to float and whirl above the mountains
partnering
the jigging birds and clouds
Circle up, flutter
circle up, flutter
open wings
fly.
Quietly, Percy lived
on Section 1in an Eastern
Montana dugout,
listening to crickets
and meadowlarks, a lonely
conversation on windy plains.
Lively, Allie wanted
to dance, and joined her cousin
at the Richey dance.
Allie – with California beaches
in her genes – swung her hips into
Percy’s arms, that unsuspecting fall night.
Leaving the brutal January winter,
Percy lived up to his promise
and traveled to Long Beach,
stealing away his Dancing Queen.
I listen
to 10,000 Maniacs songs
in-between hours, and
you were constancy
of crystalline accompaniment
and precise guitar notes –
dominating but the raven-haired dervish
growing to womanhood in your view.
All men with bowties
should have a title bestowed on them.
All men with bowties and perverse literary leanings
should have a guitar thrown in their hands.
The end hurts.
I forced it and I will never know how it ended.
I rushed it.
I did not plan it.
It happened.
As summer comes to an end, so does love.
Love came to an end, and yet I still warned that it was approaching.
It was the beginning of the end before my earth day.
It ended long before I knew.
Still I let the end dupe me all the same.
I never knew I was capable of putting an end to a love so long in the making…
Almost 20 years of friendship and love has come to an close.
Farewell…
You taught me love and for this I will always wish you well.
Love like energy never dies, it is transferred.
All rights reserved copyright(c)2017 Natasha Vanover
earth wind fire rain
separate but equal can you
feel the pain the oceans
rise like a woman’s body
when the moon calls
rain earth wind fire
every person you have ever
touched you have never touched you
are always an atom apart
but there are many things that strive
to be only an atom apart
fire earth rain wind
reminds us we can begin
again buries summer deep
within
rain wind fire earth
births us from the night
a tiny spark in the distance the outline
of wave and flame look the same
from a distance
writing a poem
to the background
of dawn chorus
the rush of a train
through lush fields
When he sings a lovely song the green notes float like some balloons
And sparkle in the air with hues of gold
His modulated voice is blue to my ears
Like some royal blood men of the envied throne
His voice turns red in moments of romance
That cannot be resisted velvety and kind
His laughter is a lot of silhouettes
Varies in every tone every tune every baritone
My life is a mixture of shades of different hues
A rainbow of bliss and patches of colors