24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Emerald Cut
VCS
The pool was was made of turquoise wind
the edges sculpted
an emerald cut tapered up
of perfect teal
Hidden in its high setting
protective mountains
coated in diamond dust
glaciers
that dripped
merciless cold
from the dawn of time
with endless purity
into the vast jewel
leaping high with strange inclusions
jumping fish
living waters
pouring out into the evermore
I’m barely out of bed and will not be using the prompt, which sound extremely cool by the way…
My hour one poem is destined by circumstance to be short; therefore, a haiku:
Waking with the thrill
Of grand anticipation
And just twelve minutes
Can blossom into a beautiful flower.
For our soul.
For one another
Love is like a rose
The smile, the small gestures, the quiet laughter
They are all but shadows
Slowly fading into nothing
Grasping, chasing, capturing
All but futile
Everything has faded
The rain have washed them away
The sunshine have erased them thoroughly
I don’t want to be alone,
I don’t want to be afraid,
I just want you standing here,
I want to see you smile.
I want you to understand,
we haven’t talked this long while.
I loved you, I loved you,
those words that haunt me still.
But now I’m all alone,
with emptiness that will not fill.
Summers of my youth
grandparents Northwoods lake home
awakened each day by preset alarm of waves
gentle Horseshoe Lake, water softly lapping sand
rhythmic, kindergarten teacher hand clap
calling me to come…come…come…
and I would, every summer morning, rain or shine
cooling off in lake water preferred option of most
I often chose the shade covering the winding
path through Hanson’s woods
narrowed trail, pine, oak, and birch tree canopied
filtering out most direct sun, lighter rain
most always on my own, peers preferring water
friends my age not as attuned with solitude
a log – stately oak felled in a storm years before
well- placed-on-my-path thinking-bench,
at least when I was younger
by my teens it had decayed, becoming one with
surrounding forest dirt, sustaining life
but not now-adult-sized me
resulting in my finding the more
ruggedly manly stump to sit on for
extended musing, silent pontificating
communing, as I was, with my woods – possession
granted by old Mr. Hanson, who cherished my
love of nature – his woods, and now mine;
a graciously granted blessing
minutes in Hanson’s woods could quickly
decompose into hours, hours into entire days,
at times the cooler winds of encroaching evening
my only hint at passing time, solitary clue to head home
In the years since I continually strode, savored
Hanson’s woods, I have traveled countless other paths
rustic, well-worn; different locales with more
unique features than those familiar to me as a young boy
I have gotten to know nature in other climes, times
none come close to igniting the passion
burning still in my memories of youthful summers
walking the unlimited terrains of a thirty-acre
patch of pines, birches, oaks, poplars
though old man Hanson has long passed, our trails
long grown over, landscaped; our woods now home
to a house, a family who will know nature less naturally
they remain my woods, my no-place-like-home-still-today
patch of northern Minnesota forest I call Hanson’s wood
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Earth wind fire water reign over the world
Rain brings new life
Wind spreads the seeds
Fire clears the old
Earth is their home
01 2017 poetry marathon
August 5, 2017, morning dawns in Oakland
by Paul Robert Sanford
The lights are coming on in the tall buildings.
A few cars rush past on their way to wherever people go at dawn.
One dark charcoal colored SUV leads the way turning left onto 17th
headed for the cluster of tall buildings.
Red lights blink on the twin towers of the Federal Building.
Chill air drifts in the open window,
whispering pasts my bare legs.
Moist inside my heavy coat
I watch the dawn slip in,
the rheostat turned ups slowly
as the dark of night does its warm up exercises
for the blazing heat of noon.
The earliest buses blunder past
on their way to meet people starting their day.
A truck crosses an overpass at 14th street.
The gray web of sleep lifts from both the city
and my senses, but so slowly, so slowly.
Lights are on in the Federal Building now
scattered across its warm sandstone facade.
In DC it the work day started minutes ago
our government at work making conference calls
sending and acknowledging faxes,
kicking off the West Coast in the middle of the sleeping city.
Still no lights in any of the houses I can see.
Strange that there would be more bustle at midnight than at dawn
here on the edge of Uptown,
the crossing place between residential and the hard cold streets
where, on the other side of I980
the Greyh(o)und (B)US terminal shows its wounded sign
and the security guards wake the sidewalk sleepers.
Old highways converge at complex angles,
and tucked away are coffee shops and old dive bars,
trendy brave new little restaurants and refurbished clubs.
New construction of classy apartments with balconies,
maybe some condos, although those are usually upgrades of old apartments.
The olive drab jagged outlines of the conifers across Brush street
mark a line of nature fighting for its space in the city,
blending with the soft gray of the blurry sky.
As the second cement truck of the day rumbles past,
swirling its slurried load,
the broadleaf trees shine out with lighter colors against the conifers.
The growing light rounds out the shape of the evergreens.
The ivy at its foot is a ripple of shadow and color.
Across the freeway the trashy apartment building
proudly shows its gigantic graffiti letters
a short row of gabled vintage houses watches the mean streets over there
one is getting an upgrade as the pockets of poverty gentrify.
But still there are no lights in their windows
or in the windows of my neighbors across the street.
The traffic light is green for the cars that go rolling down brush.
A red hand stops pedestrians who have not been savvy enough
to push the button.
Nobody is walking on the sidewalk.
The liquor stores are closed,
the recycling centers have not opened.
The light changes and an elderly sedan growls awake on 18th
and mutters through the intersection.
They gray city poises and stretches,
preparing for the 2000 cars that will pass my house at rush hour,
stopping to growl and fret and check the time
when the light turns red,
the flow of traffic so thick nobody can get up to speed.
For now, even the single cars roll quietly past
headed somewhere to turn on the lights.
The daylight on the federal building has softly grown
to the point that I can no longer tell which windows are lit
and which are dark, because the contrast of dark and light has switched.
A fruit fly ambles about in the air around my face,
my legs are chilled, feet cold,
a ring of sweat forms under my thick heavy coat collar.
I taste the stale coffee in my mouth.
Time to dress and perform my morning ablutions,
start my own day.
My neighbors will have to wake up without my supervision.
8/05/17 6:58am
Ele(mental)
My father is a leo; I was born from his flame.
In the middle of the desert; in the scorching heat I came.
We burn ourselves alive from the inside out;
Call it what you will, addiction sates the drought.
It’s said the Virgin comes from earth; she’s a giving tree,
But my legs are not like roots; they buckle under me.
I have sunflowers in my eyes; skin that’s summer kissed.
Dirt trails and grand canyons form road maps across my wrists.
Breath inside my chest; it’s been caught there since I was young.
Gasping for open space; some smoke inside the lung.
I would fly if I could fill it; float somewhere far away from here.
I would quit if I could kill it; say I’ll try sometime this year.
I live inside the oceans; I’m the waves as they form.
The calmness of low tide; the chaos of the storm.
Capsized in my pride; I’ll be washed of my ache.
The swells know my soul; they build and they break.
Lemon Haze,
It leaves you in a lemon daze,
It takes you to a lemon maze,
And waits for you to fade!
Lemon Haze!