24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Fading
My sister’s move reminds me of
flowers starting to fade.
I ponder permanence.
Proud bristling thistle
aren’t so bright or so sharp.
My dancing,
drifting meadow of mallow
starts to fall over.
I tie some up. It will
return to the ground.
Ominous smoke drifts
from fires far away.
Such a thief can
steal summer after
such a long wait.
Government’s
kettle of lies
boils progress
and leaves me just hope.
While my sister picks
a retirement center.
The millionaire who had donated his estate to the church
had made money from whatever war was underway
and the sanctuary was filled with furs on Sunday morning
The Women’s Guild officiated in the mansion next door
in burgundy carpeted dining room with dark wood paneling and
oil painting of peacocks bowing gracefully
The smell of strong coffee meant the service was about to end
and social hour about to commence
and the millionaire’s grandfather clock in the foyer
showed the phases of the moon
Coffee was their drug of choice
The women dealt it with solemn dignity from
a silver service
carefully maintained
My earliest Sunday school lesson:
finding out that Jesus loves me
My next to last lesson:
finding out that my Sunday school teacher wanted to molest me
and that Jesus was not on his mind
It was a clear night when my vision was restored.
I was overwhelmed by points of brilliant light–stars,
constellations, and neon signs.
As a child, I only hoped to see the future clearly.
I can’t recall when I first began to lose perspective.
I was overwhelmed by points distant–vital, vast, but
mattering less than those at hand.
When I look up, I only hope to see your face.
I can only think of you
as a place that has my soul
I wish I could hug
your walls and cry like a child
why did you let me go
I wish I could stay longer
I wish I could be here to see
you aging
To love you and share
my most beautiful days spent here
The most giving a mother
to me
I cannot even bargain
for a holiday or ride
I wish I could love you longer
and my memories
would not be as faint as this
and my love stronger
my dear old school
why did we part ways in class 8?
Copyright © Snigdha
No McDonald’s wrappers, here.
Only quality sustenance will last through
twenty four hours of versifying.
Already, at hour six, we’ve been through
the four elements, Leonard Cohen,
mountains and Jesus, eternity and sand.
Already we’re repeating ourselves in every
stanza, but not attempting a villanelle, and
going back in time. That’s why they call it
a marathon. So I started with cantaloupe.
Then sugar snap peas and red, red radishes.
Yes, a radish is a radish is a radish. I can’t wait
to finish off the macaroons, Magruder’s finest.
I had two to test the flavors, raspberry and pistachio.
Cookies before noon, not a good idea. So I dip into
the chef salad, a strip or two of cheese, a cracker.
The fancy one with salmon I’ll save until the wee hours,
when only berries and ice cream will really hit the spot.
T.S. Eliot I’m not, but perhaps he once got a prompt
to write about cats, and more cats, and that was that.
I want a chain to hold you dear,
You just run and run,
Farther and farther
……………………..
I want to be cool and calm
Not a mere hypocrite
But a simple human.
But the clutters
Don’t let me do that
My life is like a dusted keypad
Alphabets have forgotten orders
Numbers scare to jumble
Entities have lost meaning and sense
I want to give them
The air of words
So they rather breathe…
Does she craft a necklace,
Craft a song,
Craft a poem
To lament the fading dawn?
Does she tie them around her feet?
Does it changle,
Does it bangle,
Does it shine upon a tree?
Beneath a quivering sound,
Does she plant them in the ground?
As she harvests innocent souls,
Does she weep,
Does she sing,
Of all the unseen things?
Does she whisper,
Does she breathe,
Does she burnish her mark upon the trees?
Does she plant them by her bed?
Will she grind them into soup,
Will she paint them in the sky?
Does she use them as her dice,
Tempting fates with the price?
Does she craft a funeral dirge
As she plucks souls with her knife?
Will she ever take your life?
Aching heart and rattled mind,
I seek a friend, and few I find
With open hearts and willing soul
I remember times of old
When love was easy, love was kind
And we were friends, all lives entwined
And we could live our lives half-blind
It behooves me yet, to see
That you’re yet coming back at me
That you’re yet coming hard and fast
That you yet want some love to last
When you cannot begin to know
That it’s not lust that lets love grow
That it’s not ours to find and search
When we’re not left on that high perch
Taking a chance at knowing the world through a blanketing reassurance.
Searching for the moment when I can honestly believe I have succeeded.
Sweet insect crawling across the windows pane,
Bursting steps upon a transparent world.
Too small to recognize your own reflection,
Too miniscule to appreciate the view captured through this frame.
Cold, glass surface, continues.
To understand the intricate parts of this living portrait,
Each factor an accomplishment
set out to be known by the years of attempts that came before.
Smiling eyed little wonders,
Fair faced beauty with a gentle hand.
Verdant landscapes outside every window,
A room for every person,
And a table for us to share.
This is the view I am too small to see.
For every pity filled whimper locks my eyes
into the view of the few feet of ground lying in front of me.