24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
If I had eight legs, and a gaggle of eyes, and a talent for building webs,
I could run all over the world saving lives, and watch for injustice, and catch you when you fall,
Some would be repulsed,
they would try to trample me beneath their boots,
their fear baiting them to battle me,
But eight legged things are never alone. They outnumber everyone else by eleven to one.
OUT YONDER
Hours, days, years, move too quickly,
as I endlessly try to befriend the hands of time.
Beseeching it, bargaining, pleading, placating, but to no avail.
Time is not a mortal’s friend. We are bound by it, bound to it –
an infinite construct that we mark out our days by,
turning the present into a past memory with a blink of an eye.
Nothing is forever – even if we desire it.
Yesterday, I was a little girl, playing in the magical land of ‘Out Yonder’,
a circular field beyond my Papa’s backyard.
The grassy field surrounded by giant Sentry’s, rooted arm against arm,
their flowing hair, green, red, and brown, billowing in the wind and flickering wildly against the sunset.
Before I knew what fairytales were, I was twirling with the fairies,
chasing them in and out of the Sentry’s abode.
My Papa’s laughter filling the air, mixing with mine,
as fairy dust rained down from the ebony sky.
Magical explosions burst beside the moon, lighting up the field of fairies,
as I ran into the arms of my Papa.
Before I knew what Kings were, my Papa was a King.
A King with a face that exuded love,
as if it were a tangible bubble that could be held.
His laughter always contagious, his embrace always warm and safe.
And when he said, “Go play out yonder”,
I excitedly ran to the field, still expecting to see my fairies,
and my giant guards, not truly knowing what ‘out yonder’ meant.
It was the beginning and the end of feeling carefree, of innocence.
Back when the sun could kiss my skin and I wouldn’t burn.
When the Texas warmth was my joyous evening blanket.
When I stared at the stars and dreamt of flying into their depths,
to the moon, and to Mars.
Back when fantasy was a six year old’s reality,
and everything made sense in that illogical world,
before the darkest of nightmares became my reality.
But I didn’t let go of the fairies I danced with,
or the trees I believed were watching over me,
as if they were Angels in disguise.
I didn’t let go of the stars, or the moon, or of Mars.
And I never let go of my Papa, his laughter, and his love.
I never let go of his hand, even when exiled to another world.
I constantly looked for other ‘out yonder’s’, but never found one.
So I waited. And prayed. And waited. And prayed.
Until the day I would return to my Papa and his magical field.
That day never came, despite the valley, and peaks, and seas I travelled.
At ten, I said “see you soon, Papa!”, the Texas crickets singing their mating song.
Twelve years later, I looked into the New York City sky and said, “Goodbye, Papa. Until it’s my turn,” the ocean’s tide breaking against a jetty.
Magic disappeared too many lifetimes ago, yet I still look for it
in every bursting firework, in every night sky,
in every lightning bug, in every giant tree that waves in the wind.
But I’ve yet to find anything close.
It’s a lifetime later and when I look up into the Texas sky,
it’s completely unfamiliar. I see nothing happy from my childhood.
The magic is gone because my Papa is gone.
So I envision the New York City Skyline and I think of my Papa.
I smile, knowing he would be proud and that he loved me.
In all my travels, I’ve never been back to that once magical field.
I was just a child and I don’t know where it is.
So like Atlantis, my Papa’s ‘Out Yonder’ is still a mystery.
But he is forever with me.
— Saskia Lynge / Hour 5
The moment my alarm goes off
Its hustle
Every minute counts
from bottles to breakfast
I need to find a way to make this easier
yet I’m too tired the night before
to give me the time I need
so in the morning it is
rush, rush, rush
hurry, hurry, hurry
until the evening comes
and I’m too tired once again
to give it the effort it needs
to make my morning easier
so I will do it in the morning when my alarm rings
The barn is decorated clear up to the rafters
with greenery and flowers and ribbon everywhere.
The folks are dressed in their Sunday best
ready for a turn on the dance floor.
The fiddler is warming up some crowd pleasers.
The smell of food in the air makes the animals whine.
All part for the bride and groom!
In the hollow of a rock,
unboned of silver long ago,
is a shrine to a terra-cotta skinned girl
Guadeloupe,
she of the Rocky summit;
leave a candle flickering and a flower
descend as hummingbirds
lodge in crooks of Juniper,
cold-blooded things, slow as unwound clocks
As night sidles down hillsides
churchyard shadows and Christ,
tourists rise from wrought-iron benches
Pause for a procession
of Penitentes,
knees raw from the ascent to Santa Prisca
They carry infants
too young to name,
their labored breaths like prayers
Floating off on the sea, pulled out by the tide.
Starting a new adventure with the stars as my guide.
The only sound is the water flowing past the hull.
There is no need for light for the moon is bright and full.
I am on this journey alone, but I am not afraid.
I laid out a plan, and bowed my head and prayed.
The wind lifts my hair and cools the salt on my skin.
Happiness overcomes me, and I cannot help but grin.
I am free of the chains that held me for so long.
I am ready to write my own story and sing my own song.
I long to put into words
Exactly what i experienced
On that pretty emerald island
But not even my imagination
Can attempt such creation.
Rivers
Rivers flow
Through green meadow
Looking for a heart
It wasn’t lost merely misplaced
Where did it land?
Where does it flow?
Where is this man
He holds it in his breast pocket
I gave it to him but a moment ago
When he gave me his smile
As he ran out the door
I was to chase him
But I know not where to seek
I land in the green meadow
Of his smile I reek
I am sure he will find me
For my heart has a home
Its within his smile
No need to roam
my
mouth
is a paint s
p l a
t t e r
fallen in the wrong place and you are trying to
wipe. it. off. before I ruin the
clean slate of your sympathy
these kids these days but I’m
don’t have any manners don’t say always screaming
THANK YOU
I’M SORRY
I LOVE YOU in poems smeared abstract
and silent by your
apathy
The cheerful jig sounded from center stage that day,
Clapping hands and tapping toes answered the fiddle’s play.
The summer festival every year would draw for miles around,
Family and friends would gatherfor the magical sound.
Warm summer days, tasty treats, the festival had it all,
Children’s laughter in the streets, answering summer’s call.