24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Connected
The first thing I do,
even before coffee,
is turn on my computer,
connect to my global group
and write, and write, and write.
I laugh, live, love
by the blue screen light,
pour my soul into digital bytes
soaring through cyberspace
to target another soul
somehow, somewhere, and gauge
my inner worth by one small,
slow, like at a time.
I am still quite small,
Though I am little tall
I don’t wanna be called as mature,
As it makes me feel little insecure.
I love the innocence a child have
I neither wanna grow up, nor behave like that
People forces me to grow up,
That smothers me even if I show up
I still love to smile at silly things,
And run everywhere with little wings
I don’t wanna get involved in worldly pleasures
I hate the hypocrisies that adults make with false gestures
No! I don’t wanna called as Adult
As it make me do false conjectures.
Forgetting about the world’s falsehood, in order to live a happy livelihood,
I want to go back in my lost Childhood.
The Day I Bought a Detroit Stripper
I am approaching mid-life
If you consider 49 mid-life
Almost too quickly
That is why my recent purchase
Is quite surprising:
I bought a Detroit Stripper.
Well, not really,
What I really bought
Was a paintbrush
A very specific type of
Brush
Excellent for painting texture,
A Deerfoot Stippler
Imagine my friend’s surprise
Reading my text:
“Went to Michael’s today. Bought a Detroit Stripper.”
Auto-correct is a jerk!
fairness must rule now
all inequities muted
truth is our beacon
My readers are as close to me as my left hand as I use my right index finger to write the poem. I know you are here. I see you. I hear you. I touch you.
I plug you in and vamp up the heat,
oh, how you exhaust my memory storage,
taking up space with images and stories,
poetry and prose,
newsfeed and selfies,
*Alert: storage almost full*
your security breaches airing my dirty laundry to the world,
hello world,
let’s connect,
here is a nude image of me… “when was that even taken?”
at least my credit card information is safe,
*Alert: Someone is trying to access your gmail account in Japan*
I wish that was me in Japan, better change my password,
“Hm… What did I change it to?”
To remember I hummed a jingle and It went something like this–
If you want to get that password,
Find the perfect KISS
*Alert: 3 failed login attempts will lock your account*
We have a love/hate relationship,
Powering down.
They say there’s nothing new under the sun
Everything has been done
But people still climb mountains
Because they’they’ve never been up there
People still write books
Because they have their own tales to tell
People still sing songs
Because their ears haven’t heard the song of their heart
And people still run races
To feel the wind in their own hair
There is nothing new under the sun
Except everything we have never experienced
I stand alone before the open grave
Questions burgeoning–why should I grieve?
Your empty shell has long let free your ghost
Rejoin the molecules of that make the world
Where did you go? And will you yet return?
Have I a prayer of seeing you again?
I fling a fist of dirt below again
Upon the box ensconced inside the grave
But when I leave, I know I won’t return
This field of stone is not a place to grieve
My fate is to remain in this cold world
Haunted by your ever-present ghost
But honestly? I don’t believe in ghosts.
I guess I should aver it once again
“All that’s real and true is of this world,”
I intone, my voice sober, firm, and grave.
“If you feel loss, it’s for yourself you grieve.”
Grief only takes, gives nothing in return.
Shake it off and to your life return
Go through the motions, corporeal ghost!
No one cares to spectate while you grieve
Or hear your wailing, see you cry again
They wonder, is her depression now so grave
That she cannot enjoy that of this world?
But it’s overrated, isn’t it? This world?
You work, you sleep, to work you must return
Laboring from cradle until grave
Reenact the scene, you vengeful ghost
The human rituals, repeat, again
What life is this, the loss of which you grieve?
But still it lingers, self-indulgent grief.
The truth about this vale of tears, the world
Is sin absolved, then acted out again.
I venture forth with hope, only to return
To haunt the wounds, invisible as ghosts.
What cannot die can never have a grave.
I’m of this world but wish not to return.
Forgive again when I can finally ghost.
I’m tired of grief. My peace is in the grave.
“there’s still now” a friend whispers to me through the screen
as if I haven’t been memorizing the very shape of my lover since Wednesday.
There’s still now, this very minute, where it is not wrong to love her. But only as I type.
I lost many words on her skin.
Irreplaceable ones.
Alas, I didn’t feel at a loss.
There is still now.
Another minute at most,
before I feel the mountains fall down onto my head from sky that was too weak for their heavy
Silent Silence
Silence,
Somehow describes me,
But my silence speaks silently.
People calls me introvert,
I, myself made me a secret.
Secrets which surprisingly opens,
And speaks silently.
I did not choose it though,
All made me to be so.
Nobody is that free to listen your life,
All are busy in their fights.
I left things unshared,
Still, my silence speaks sometimes.
Emotions replaced by emoji,
Feelings changed to What’s in your mind.
Thoughts are now status.
That is why I graved my inner soul into me.
By adopting a silence.
But sometimes it still speaks.
Silent which understands me, silently.