24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I
illuminated
dreams
screaming to be
embarked upon unwillingly
youth often comes last while
energy is drained away into
outside its ways begging to cling
generational to generational
lasting only a few seconds for
rapidly growing kids hungered
damning their youth in effort
to separate from the words
so small to them
meaning an expulsion of understanding
greater than before
ever turning without an
End
Funny how at the beginning
You can find an end,
Shining like recycled gold
Or the afterbirth
Of something long, strenuous,
And possibly inadvisable.
When you find the end,
You can place it with great delicateness
On your finger.
It may fit there, snugly,
Sparkling into the eyes of those
Willing to see.
I lived the end.
Once, when I was thirty-one,
Just one year after getting married
And earning a masterful degree.
But those things, too, ended,
And hospital beds grew cold.
A bang or a whimper?
Fire or ice?
Slouching or sprinting with
Obscene alacrity?
Or perhaps with gentle, escalating doses of
Prozac and novelty?
Go somewhere
Travel
Go fast
Go slow
Don’t stop
Sit on the porch
Mingle with the young
Exercise
Meditate
Be optimistic
Don’t answer the phone
Destroy all electronics
Become invisible
Learn something
Go wild
Believe something
Go naked
I am somewhere
Hasten to listen
like grass springing after a rainfall
Hear every utterance
Words Matter
Refrain use of a quick tongue
before action seems foolish
For what is said can thud like stone
Words Matter
Relieve stress
allow bitterness to not inhibit your mouth
Mercy is the only language
Words Matter
The sound that awakens me and puts me to sleep
The touches and the voices that bring me to my feet
The unconditional and welcomed annoyance
That makes me yell, smile, laugh, and cry all in the same week
The “Ouch-es”, the “Stop it-s”, the “Leave me alone-s”, and the “Get out-s”
These phrases sound like hit records on repeat… and indeed they could be
As they are in my mind, music to me
The loudest and the most beautiful noise is never too noisy for me.
Slowly, long, pink fingers pull back the covers, What a beautiful display! Colored lines of beauty, caressing and creating soft curves across the scene, arising slowly, erasing the darkness into day! The gray mist of dreaming fades in her fairest light, As sweet, sensual sunshine bids adieu to the night!
The walls hang crooked.
The bottoms don’t touch.
The outside seeps
in like a heavier metal.
My skin a feast for any jaw
that can close on it. Quiet
heart, quiet your clanging
is waking the children.
There are no children. How
can even a bell be
out of tune. I mean, I can’t hear
the tune. I mean,
if I can’t hear it, how can
the heart be in it? The welts
rise up. The body a red
and white sand paper.
Give me something to rub
against and smooth.
Suffocation
living with minimal purpose
days guided by routines
spilled coffee, wrinkled clothes, misplaced keys
purposeless, stagnant, a frozen existence
numb with struggles that resist quietly within
telling you to let go of what you have become
all that you have allowed yourself to know about you
that lack of information
because you know you more than anyone else, right?
The end
severs the ties that bind you to comfort
it allows you to accept the unknown
to accept the struggles
that will soon come because in this present place
you are not growing and that is more painful than scathing your knees
In the end
you don’t have to practice
you have to just BE
Never made a clean getaway
Always left hairs in the sink
And unvacuumed spider carcasses
Under the bed
Never made it past the driveway
Without smearing a tear through mascara
Or remembering my coffee cup
Left on the kitchen table
Never forgot anything
That I couldn’t ship or live without
The stuff is only so important anyway
And memories don’t weigh much
I hear the change . . .
it’s in her voice . . .
in her way.
Mom is getting old;
I don’t want to accept . . .
she will one day leave.
Leave me here;
Alone.
The world she protected me within;
And taught me to thrive . . .
at least, to survive.
It’s the end of the stronger side;
of Mom.
Survivor of a Great Depression;
Fighter of every schoolyard bully . . .
for me.
She remembers an assassination . . .
of a great man;
or is it more?
I do not.
Mom was politically assertive;
she is still her . . .
just lesser in vim . . .
Vigor still stands, though.
I am her in her 50s…
will my boldness wane?
Like Mom at 84?
I will miss the bolder side;
and embrace the elder side;
I hope for years to come.
The end of my younger Mom.
The beginning of my middle-age
and Mom’s last stage(s) . . .
but not the end of her!