24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The wind rustled her hair as she walked along the shore.
Her smile hid the fact that inside her raged a war.
She walked to and fro, moving along with the tide.
The sounds of the ocean helped heal the pain inside.
She stopped for a moment and stared into the abyss.
She wondered if the ocean took her, would she be missed?
On Fire
That careless hand
(manicured, fine long fingers)
lingers, then flicks –
and the yellow straw grass lining
the highway sighs before it sparks
(neither in the car look behind
them – the road ahead leading to
paradise)
and the wind exhales its breath;
giving life to a flame that rises
on its haunches, crawls across the earth
and finds its prey –
licking the aspen trunks,
swallowing whole trees
as it jumps from one to another
in search of more
and the fire rages
across the land.
Mother Earth’s hand
in so many…
(her heated breath,
spikes of angry light
shooting like fingers)
pointing at the forest
(she doesn’t look back –
she’s always known
paradise)
and the wind exhales its breath,
complicit, as old growth forests
with ancient trees, standing for
centuries, now crumble into
ash
and the fire rages
while a blue hand reaches
across the sky, spreading its fingers
wide –
(its canopy startling in its
beauty, startling in its danger:
no sign of paradise).
The wind holds her breath –
Omitted clouds for days and weeks,
While the sun and wind conspire
and the fire rages
even against oceans of water
(dumped at the hands of humans,
toiling with numb fingers and
tired arms to save
paradise)
into forty nights the battle ensues,
while the wind brushes the skies
(over quiet lands with brilliant
hues of neon pink and blood
orange, death-red)
it is silent
and the fire rages.
Into the stillness of a dream
The day had been what it’d never been
Wide swing, warm coffee, chilly day;
Words flowed from fingers, come what may
When up I glanced, to a tattered blue
And a stylish shirt; it was only you
They say that clothes can make the man
Though I’d say you made those jeans all you can!
And I’d say, instead, that clothes can portray
The heart of a man and, perhaps, his way
For, when you peered from behind the frame
And spoke of what sets your mind aflame
I knew we’d be friends forever-more
Even if we knew not what life had in store
Some star-crossed loves are but passing friends
Who yet share a connection that never ends
And you, who shares so much of his eyes’ deep sight
Shall have coffee, deep chats with me one long night
Words and life may have limits, true
But star-crossed friendships never do
Running passed my house
Racing down the street
Forgot to tie my shoe lace
I trip over my own feet
It’s a lovely Friday night
So much of the town to see
Forgot my wallet at home
My friend had to pay for me
New ideas blooming
I have lots to share and say
Forgot how to speak, mind is blank
The stage took my voice away
A hen has a calendar.
On it, is a list of the days
she will lay an egg.
This is the reason she lives for.
Each Nebula of Yolk is a star.
A star for every day marked
on her calendar.
Oh, there’s the crow of the rooster,
too. He is so optimistic. And the bits
of insect and leaf he points out.
Looky here, he says.
But that is secondary to the egg,
in the hen’s mind.
Each egg is marked on her calendar
because there is nothing in her life
more important. That is why
they are packaged so carefully—
first the albumen, a special concoction
of mystery and yum, and then
the swift and fragile production
of the hard-cover book filled
with the knowledge of being.
She knows each egg means a safe landing
for another star of the universe
as it lands on this earth.
That is why each day at dawn,
or perhaps later in the afternoon,
she is beyond elation as a warm
three-dimensional oval plops
neatly and clean onto the straw
beneath her tail feathers.
Be-gawk! Amen!
And why the heck not?
She is writing her self-portrait
Rolling words within her mouth
Like the finely pointed tip of a brush
Its camel bristles viridian green
While the broader brush beside it
Glistens with a simpler blue
Simple as mountain air is simple
Blue with the evening damp
A thin mist of blue and grey
And the promise of evening rain
Not simple at all, really
The lines she hopes will sing
Quiver like the strings
Of the untuned harp in the corner
That still holds the memory
Of music within tensile wires
Hum in sympathy to colours and textures
Palette knife and finger
Stone and rag and bone
She knows she must include
How will she draw the rivers
She wonders
The earthy Mekong brown
The silverine of the Chao Phraya
The red clay of the Arkansas
The chatoyance of this newest friend
For now, she is an island
in a confluence of waters
How their currents fed her from wide beds
How she moved over and through
Their slick finned stories
It is more than hesitating brush and ink
Are able in her faltering hand
To render
The cacaphony that masquerades
As her name, her face
How it changes colours
As the rivers widen shorten deepen
Each a note on a staff in a lyric
That needs more music to move
As the wind does As the birds do
As she did each year of her fragmented childhood
In arcs of bright morning light
In swooping loops of flight
In the scalloped surfaces of rivers
That might as well be her own blood
Circling in pulsing rhythm
Her faceless homeless heart
No you don’t need that!
But I…
Trust me!
But what if…?
I have known you beforeg you even had desires!
This is…
Now shhh..for a while and listen to me,
I am your thy, your thou, I am your thee!
I have heard your yearning,
I have seen your bearing,
All I am saying is to ignore for a while,
Take a walk, take a bath may be run for a mile,
When you’ll see your lungs escape,
A gasp of air will become your fate,
What is the point of sharing them,
As no one seems to be caring for them,
Your yearnings,
your earnings,
your learnings belongs to you,
Your heart your soul belongs to you,
All I’m saying is to shut your eyes,
And go beyond the illusionary lies,
Meditate
meditate;
Ohhhh please don’t hesitate,
Together we will solve the tragedy,
I am not your OCD,
I am your ally and enemy,
Go down in memories
and please be a bit kind,
Always hearing your queries
I am your mind.
Morning coffee fills the air
l listened for you
Outside rumbles the grey skies
The pace quickens
I lay on the floor wrapped in sheets
All is silenced then clapped
I heard the thunder roar
Lightening flashed over my soul
Coffee your fading steps
Soft sheets about
Reminding me I am alone
Waking to thoughts of you
Naked
Respect, the ability to feel ok
with me
the ability for me to feel ok with me
with you
The ceasing of your crazy
that ability you have to make me
not feel ok
an unkind word, a quipped response, click of the call ending
And I’m left behind
not feeling ok with me, with you
trying to make myself feel ok
I rage internally
a seething, unquenchable yearning to be ok
with me, with you
A yearning that cannot be spoken of, that must be contained
within my rage
Your actions swept under the rug
Never to be spoken of, forgotten by you or rewritten in your crazy
which makes me crazy
my rage, red hot, bursting at the seams
pen to paper, writing out the longing,
the need to feel ok
no longer works
I cry, scream, yell at nothing,
at everything, except
you.
Unspoken, the air pregnant
with words left unsaid
hurtful actions perpetuated in your crazy
Leave me unable to feel ok with me,
with you
we lose nothing by loving
the weight of a heart
the fragility of a feather
both can be a hundred pounds
depending on the handful
regardless
of how our mind weaves regret
if we hold steady
we lose
nothing