24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
We had an abundance of trees
to slice the horizon into a beautiful half circle;
blessed with two knobby apple trees
that guaranteed apple butter to spice up
our fall dinner table;
Nothing wasted as my pioneer Grandmother
picked up every apple,
one tree red,
one tree green,
she carved around the bug nips,
sliced perfect slices for whatever
apple treat she was preparing,
the house smelling sweet
like cinnamon and brown sugar.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016
keep it up,
keep it up,
keep it up.
don’t quit yet,
goddamnit!
keep going.
don’t stop!
you hear me brain?
…
…
…”oh shut up.”
Someone once said Tennessee is always green.
To which I replied – why what do you mean?
“I fly from place to place you see,
And from the air, Tennessee
Reminds me of dear old Ireland.”
Is it the hills and lush green grass?
I inquired, sipping tea from a tall clear glass.
“Why no,” she retorted. “It’s the sound of fiddles and singing.”
“The smell of stoves burning wood.
It’s the pastures and forests, clacking of hoofs.”
“And if that twernt’ enough, it’s the smell of the food!”
Curious now, I turned round to discover who it might be,
Could be knowing what lay below one in the air.
Expecting a pilot with wings on his hat,
There sat before me a bird that was black.
“‘Tis I,” saith the Raven,
Now I’ll quote him no more!
I see before my eyes a little lady,
Now being held by the hand.
But soon she will be like her mother,
And grow up to be a strong woman.
Her world is filled with Barbie’s and ballerina’s,
Make believe and tea parties are were also oa blast.
Soon make up and clothes will win her over,
While boys and parties are not to be outdone.
Another challenge is driving and cars,
Graduation and college are around the corner.
She is looking toward a bright future,
While wishing the fun didn’t have to end.
She is now dealing with endless papers and tests,
These deadlines are met with groans of distress.
Her graduation day has come once again,
So, she can come out at the top of her class.
Today, her job as a successful teacher,
Has led her down a chosen road.
The path is rewarding, yet taxing at times,
Although, she loves everything and everyone.
Retirement will soon be knocking at her door,
With many dreams and hopes to renew.
Continue to guide and inspire her,
There goes a woman with much left to do.
Poem TEN has been removed and now appears on chocolate is a verb, 28 August 2016.
Next to the river
On the path through the mountains
I have lost my heart…
Antoinette LeRoux © 2016
I walk this winding wooden trail
With beauty everywhere
Toward a peaceful destination
Filled with dreams beyond compare
Each and every way I look
God’s wonder clearly shines
Blessing every step I talk
For He has made this life mine
I see the water, so pristine
The trees so lush and green
And find myself well moved to tears
I’m blessed by what I’ve seen
But, sadly so few take the time
To appreciate the wonder
A world so quickly passing by
So often torn asunder
What are the dreams I seek to find
Upon this wooden trail?
I keep these dreams within my mind
For each remains quite frail
I hold them close, so tenderly
Until they reach their home
And when I find their sacred place
They will be free to roam
My hope is by the trailway’s end
These dreams will at last excite
And the power held within each one
Will rapidly ignite
For sometimes serenity is blessed
And we all should stop and smile
Just basking in the natural wonder
If only for awhile
What if my vagina became a lotus flower and the earth was the pedal’s stool at my feet what if I gave you my soul to devour and each word you spat I could not even speak
Spoken in languages only stars could conceive celestial bodies only galaxies could see
Buried treasures only cosmic pirates could find and seek
The universe as my playground with moons,stars and planets at my reach
To move as I please and change how I see fit
Milky ways and belts that stretch dimensions black holes of dark matter to capture any shooting stars blink
I would rest upon my infinite seat and make worlds; first time spans and critique beings of design, unique patterns; blue prints even of Gods from Majestic places
Blending a high priestess’ pot with dashes of star dust moon rock and sun’s brew. an inevitable elixir of devine wisdom’s cure. Balance of wings only made for Ascension
Sight of eyes only made to lead
~ism
Who am I?
I’m Jean Valjean
No, wait, that’s not right
Who am I?
I am Inigo Montoya, you killed
No, stop that
This isn’t kitsch it’s a statement of being
Who am I?
I guess I don’t know
I am a writer
Who struggles to write
I am a photographer
With nothing to photograph
I am a lover
Without a person to love
I am a wanderer
Without the means to wander
Who am I?
I am a lost and frightened thing
Too old to be finding myself
And too young to be this bitter
I’m a woman of 33 with a college degree
And no career to show for it
With student loans that I have yet to pay off
For an education I cannot use
I’ve had fourteen jobs
And never made more than eleven an hour
I am depressed
I am crushed
I am afraid
But not all the time
No
Not all the time…
Monstrous, midevael plague, you’ve destroyed me with your
wickedness for years,
Even though you have choked me
with your venom filled claws,
My immunity towards you has grown.
You cannot hold me down
With your weight on my heart, for
I have the strength to expose
Your weaknesses,
Just as you have done mine.
Scandalous, malicious entity,
I have been made aware
Of your sickly presence,
Feeble, Unable, and Unaware
Your longing to destroy me
Has left you weak!
My passion for survival has
Beat you down.
Fool! Jester! Trickster of the heart!
No more can I laugh at your
Wicked, Wicked ways.