24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Everything changes –
Songs we love
Days we want to live in,
Who we think of during
A slow G7 progression.
Our professions
Our possessions
What holds us and
Keeps us–
Up at night or down
In the basement
Of our feelings
The place where
These dirges emerge from,
Where nothing changes
But how much harder it is for me
To admit what I should call this.
title from sylvan esso, funeral singers
Hour Eight: Prompt: Music without words by Max Richter
Gentle patter.
Gentle quiet.
Ease your breath, I will come to you.
A caress is a caress.
Hope to a cry that will be answered.
Feel me? Yes, I sense and caress.
You are not alone.
I see you, and you are not alone.
Feel me with you.
Dry your eyes for now. I will dry them for you, one day, one day sooner than you know.DMW
Sunflower Swing
the empty swing beckons whoever will take the risk.
no criteria, no membership, no permission required.
find me and I am yours!
the clear path ends at fields of yellow, pollen shared with bees,
crunchy seeds a gift to birds, oil for your cooking.
flowering faces turned toward the sun, await a new sentinel.
seasons will change, time will pass, soil go fallow.
the earth will turn. new life, new memories will claim the sun
Maybe it’s the darkness that embraces me from behind
Maybe it’s the warmth before me that’s so bright I could go blind
It’s a curious flame, a spark that ignites wonder
As I hold my own light at hand, I ponder
The fire one, the lantern another
Both embraced by roots, yet compared to the other
One burns at the first touch, the other encased
One’s darkness and embrace of nature, the other a creature post haste
One a burning desire, the other an idea
It may be strange to think, under a star-filled sky
It may be an odd comparison, curious thoughts in my mind going by
But the light is strong and long lasting
A wondering mind has no trouble casting
The will of the flame I hold in my hand
The will of the fire placed on land
The questions stop as I stare at them and lay down on the warmth of the sand
He came back from the war
carrying discarded shells in his pocket
‘3 for those I killed,’ he says
He also brings an iPhone full of pictures
and videos
him and his buddies having a good time
firing shots into the mountainside
kicking up dust, drinking beers
a10s from far off farting death on buildings
big explosions to hoots and hollers
camel spiders trying to kill each other
stop signs with noodle text
interpreter with a back home sports team hat on
thumbs up with the flag
and then a little girl crying
as someone behind the camera taunts her in farsi
he appears in the foreground with his rifle
shouldered
he looks at the camera with a
‘watch this’ face.
Constellation
The sky is alit with
A million tiny lights
And there in the vast infinity
A few look exceptionally bright…
If you look closely
You will find
A bear, a hunter, a snake
Or even dragons and centaurs
Look closer and you will find
Even more constellations
Full of imagination
And wonder
You will see the zodiacs
With the twins and water bearer
You will see the spirits of yonder
And foxes, eagles and swans
Queens and maidens
And musicians with lyres
You will meet them all
Once you look carefully
At the sky alit with
A million tiny lights…
Shove. Get in there!
Snick—the key turns.
Your big brother Mickey’s footsteps clack
on the wood floor,
thud on the rug.
It’s dark in here.
Old rubber galoshes stink of feet,
the coats of wet wool.
They hang around,
their hems on your neck and shoulders.
You hope no mice come in here
to scrabble and squeak
like they do in the walls by your bed.
My mother was never a tree,
nor a tree branch, nor the leaves
that block the sun into shade.
She was the shade itself,
the cool hand that took away fevers
and calmed bruises children got
from playing too hard. She was born
on a prairie that lacked shade
except for the windbreak the CCC planted
after she was born. I think that’s why
she appreciated the little shade there was
on the prairie, and she became
what she appreciated. She folded the
fear of God into her skin, knew
her calling was to provide balms
to those who needed balm. For years,
my mother dreamed of the bison
that once roamed the land of her youth.
A mother bison provides shade
for her calves. All she has to do
is stand beside them. When the grass
died for lack of rain, it was the shade
that sustained my mother
and her sisters. They ate bowls of shade
for breakfast and daydreamed of rain.
Right now, my mother
is the dream that runs through my mind,
and everywhere she goes, her steps leave
foot-shaped indentations of shade.
The pressure of life has gotten to me.
Camping in nature will set me free.
Totally alone, no people about.
This is a place I can scream and shout.
Stars my canopy, the Milky Way is clear.
Off in the distance I see a deer.
Smores on the campfire, I have for desert.
Me and my thoughts, in a warm flannel shirt.
I crawl in my tent, asleep right away.
Tomorrow at sunrise, I’ll enjoy the day.
The past draped about us like a cloak
A chocolatey center of a bad idea
wrapped in coating increasing the risk of suicide
drawn relationships stuck on who you are
outlining who you are now
casting shadows over what they think they know about where you have been
binding you to silent tears hidden in ducts
Alone you can’t stop crying untriggered