24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The problem
with living in the city
is
there’s always someone doing
what you are doing.
There’s traffic
all through the night
and you
are never the only one
up or out.
Well, maybe once.
In treacherous wind-chills,
my visiting brother and I
trudged to the edge of the park.
No people were there,
but through half-closed eyes
we saw
three does like a vision,
shortly, and then we went home.
they all sleep
or read their books
work on laptops
and play on tablets
they order more coffee
or more mineral water
i keep looking
on the window
watching
the clouds
go by
It’s five in the morning, I should be alone,
the only one up in this house,
as I finish what I started twenty-four hours ago,
this poetry marathon, a sleepless creative
hell of my own making, only because I have
to work in two hours and then fry myself on
a soccer field after that, ah but sleep.
She’s just around the turned corner of the morning.
But who do I hear creaking the floorboards above me?
It’s she who sometimes doesn’t sleep at night.
The insomnia came after the concussion, that kick
in the head just over one year ago.
I saw her asleep at eight, while I was on poem fourteen.
I’m not surprised to hear her stomp, stomp, pull open
a drawer, stomp, stomp, and plop into her squeaky bed.
I had forgotten how quiet the night was in my room
when she was away at college up north playing soccer.
But at this hour, this sacred sleep hour when no one
arises or goes to bed, I lay in my bed, IPad propped on
my naked belly, the screen’s light, casting a shadow on
the ceiling while the fan blows white noise about me,
and struggle through the last “poem” of this marathon,
the final, number twenty-four, for which I am thankful.
I journeyed into the wood
Searching for myself,
As high up as the trees,
And as low as the rivers flowing freely.
And everywhere I turned
I found no man,
But in the great spirit of nature,
I found my soul reflected instead.
if I jumped off of this balcony
I wonder if I would land on my feet
I can hear my knees give out now
broken like cracked wooden panels
If I don’t land at all
I wonder if I beat my arms fast enough
If I would glide
and the tips of my toes would scrap across the wooden panels instead
Until I’m lifted high enough
To brush strokes among the clouds amd leave my footprints in the sky.
Darkness slips silent, tight to the ground
On velvet paws
A cat
Is absorbed into the shadows
Of an ebony hedge
Which rustles
And is loosed
Into the dark air
In rough-winged flight
A crow
Rises
Where
Murky clouds cluster
In a brutish sky
Darkness
Flitting before me
Above me
And beyond me
Sometimes the darkness stays
© Anne McMaster 2016
Footsteps echo off the pavement
Tapping rapport in the dark
Shadows all in triplicate
Criss-crossing over arc
All the dogs have set to howling
Sombre timbre to their bark
In the air anticipation
Of the stranger in the dark
Black as ink the bats are dropping
From the trees and taking flight
Your timid footsteps catch and pitch
Every time you start with fright
Clouds obscure the moon above you
Deepened shadows kill the light
On the wind a whispered warning
Beware the stranger in the night.
Which of these
Juices
Is the best?
I ask my pendulum to decide
Swinging it in a circle
Until it triangulates
To the perfect choice.
And it always chooses perfectly.
So many choices
Too little time
Precious few dollars
To waste on the wrong product.
I feel their energies
The people
Wondering
What is that thing she’s playing with?
So, I wait
Ignoring them
Until they’re gone.
Sometimes they ask, and I explain.
I’m psychic.
I use this to make
Simple decisions.
Because I always want the best product.
God will know
The very best,
So, I ask.
Clearing space.
Stacking stones by size in readiness.
Largest near wall base, smaller further out and fillers (most important) in piles.
Marking batters.
Ends defined with timber frames, sloped for strength.
Base string pulled taught, between nailed markers, an ideal guide.
Choosing stones
The largest first, a flat face creating beauty.
Settled in place on the hardened ground, fillers worked in, stone stable.
First layer
Completed both faces secured and firm.
Ugly stones, rocks packed into core for added strength and durability.
Markers moved.
With each layer the process repeats.
Markers raised, stones laid best face out, fillers inserted, cores packed.
Topping out.
Long narrow stones end on.
Complete this work of functioning art, this boundary of beauty.
The sleep of the dead,
Begins as others awake.
Still, dreamless slumber
Restores the deprivation.
This lack of sleep –
Slowly, dreams begin
A thin coat of sweat covers me.
The sun makes its appearance known,
Prying through my eyelids.
Sounds of life outside –
Dogs, a lawn mower, stray spoken words –
Waking, the day is missed.