24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The shaking of our world is when
the seas are warming and the
glaciers are melting as the daily march of news
which we all can see and feel is filtered
out by us all in our attempt to remain blind to
what our 5 senses are telling us about the
arrival of the avenging angels.
I would normally have scooped you up in a glass
and taken you outside
but you did a Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible
and came down from the ceiling
to right in front of my face
bringing the fight to me
This I cannot abide
(5 August 2017)
so
bravely
riding
a
gossamer
to
worlds
unknown
not
my
dream
just
a
spider
Crawling in its webs
Looking for preys
Lurking in the dark of night
Brightness in a day
Wishful things happening
A spider in its brooding
Awaiting meal for its life
Moving for the kill
A spider
© Roy Mark Azanza Corrales 06082017 5:04 AM PST
It starts with the letter “A ”
And sings like a bird
I don’t know from whence it came
but to follow it I went down
Oops! I didn’t mean say, “What the…..”
l’ll turn around now
and the other way walk.
Credit: Emily Dickinson
A Bird Came Down The Walk
Moving Day
– End of the month and it
is raining. The truck we booked is
late and the house, a dangerous
mess of life, packed in boxes to
trip over. So, we slow the pace, nestle together on the veranda and read
Aesop’s fables, choosing his words, over the daily newspapers.
With thanks to Margaret Atwood for her brilliant poem,
“It is Dangerous to Read Newspapers”
(this line also appears in the body of the poem)
At one point
It all becomes a part of us
The fire within
strikes
despite being flooded with
the water inside of us
the air we breathe is everywhere
at the same time it is within us
when we die,
we return to dust
and clothe the earth
and the rainwater
will wash us away
homage to T. S. Eliot’s “Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufock” and the following line: “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo.”
When finally you were seven, old enough to ride in
my car, in the two miles in took us to go to the
store, you looked around and said “There’s enough room
in here for my backpack, we could go to Kansas City,” the
lights in your eyes twinkling like the eyes of women
who sell fortunes to strangers on the street and come
home to twelve cats, three dogs, six fish, two turtles, and
a gerbil. “No,” I said. “Dear niece, we are authorized to go
to the store, no further,” but on and on for years, we kept talking
of Kansas City, of St Louis, and when you were eighteen, of
how we would go to London, and Florence, and Paris, to see Michelangelo.
8.
Not a day, week, month year goes by that I
Don’t think about the weight of the experience you carry
I was not there, how could I have been, I hadn’t been given your
Existence yet. Your soul was not made apparent to me, and a lonely heart
Wandered the street of the city, searching, searching for something not even I
Knew. But it was that one time that your iridescent amethyst managed to carry
Me into the shaded darkness, where the light no longer hurt my eyes and It
Felt like I belonged. You told me to look because you knew before I did, something In
Your soul told you, that night of sapphire and violet, that your colors and my
Colors would always mix and that you and I are two people of the same wandering heart
Wolfe
words inspired by
[I carry your heart with me (I carry it in] – E.E. Cummings
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way…
– Dylan Thomas, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’
We tend to ignore those who play it safe; the wild
among us celebrated for their daring, men
who ‘think outside the box’ are those who
get the credit over the ones who truly caught
what it means to act, not just speak, and
then went out to succeed; their praises not sang
often by anyone who is heard, anyone who knows the
words to commemorate deeds, looking into the sun
and not being blinded by platitudes, or coming in
at the end only to seize all the credit before taking flight.
To those we accord pompous accolades, and
those who do what is needed, in the shadows we learn
that effort is not fleeting, not unnoticed, be we too
must curry the resolve to engage those who live, not late
in the effort, not after they are gone, not when they
are not around to grasp appreciation instead of grieved
remembrances; we need to let those we love know it;
selfishness is a paltry excuse for just moving on
acknowledgement over flattery, success is, by nature, its
own. Do not go gentle; that night is not the only way.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
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