24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
what a time this is
of healing, sometimes desperation and sometimes calm
here in this house
there is peace, continuation and delay
only through the holy spirit, we roam and roam
sometimes only roaring like lions do
and sometimes building as Noah was taught too
here i lay it down and wait
slowly forgiving the past
and deciding what to make
who knew that weeding the garden
could spark a neighbor to do the same
my actions for the benefit of the herbs
hers for the summer melons
to empower a community of strangers
who knew that weeding the garden
could jump-start a nascent movement
and the young would buy into their own agency
turns out the majority lusts for something to be proud of
and fresh tomatoes and pesto
who knew that weeding the garden
could change the tilt of the earth’s axis
a common purpose and shared knowledge
empowers us with self-reliance
and trust in others to grow a better life
who knew that weeding the garden
HOUR 4
FOUR BROWN DOTS
I was in the USA,
Four awe-struck months,
when I realized, people camped.
They left everything behind,
and took off into the wilderness.
And I was hooked.
My husband was horrified.
Why? We have a five and six-year-old!
The relatives in India asked,
why? Only homeless people camp
for necessity, not for fun!
The children didn’t care,
all could sleep in one bed!
We test-camped in the Adirondacks
for seven rainy days, without proper equipment.
The rain drops on the camper,
and mold on the canvas,
drove us home.
Undeterred, we got equipped.
That summer, we camped,
Across the country,
for four weeks.
We drove through Deadwood, SD,
with a thousand bikers,
and couldn’t believe the sight.
The incongruity didn’t strike.
Us four brown dots
in a sea of white.
Everyone treated us well
and thought our kids cute.
To this day,
a memorable trip.
Viator for burning.
I let all the sadness burn
By the open glare of light
Let the song be felt,
Let the secular mind pause.
I would mistake the world for smoke,
Then my body would yearn to burn
My body would yearn for light
But times like these would fade away.
If the world ever needs warmth,
Anything a wrath cannot give the world
May my spirit be here,
May all the sadness burn.
9:00
Write a poem from the point of view of yourself, ten years ago.
2013
Recreating myself at seventy three
New partner
New town
New friends
New skills
Asking, “Who am I?”
In repartee
I have been haunted by things/ I did not do/ but should have/ I was plagued by/chamomile/ the very thing/ I was promised/ could heal me/ and I have been tortured by potential.// The pastel ghosts/ came from me/ trying to give a face/ to my demons/ and evolved into/ a comfort unlike/ any other.// Similar to the/ sunflower girlies/ curling their hair/ pressing on their nails/ razor sharp/ and crying in their cars.// But do not worry/ we all grow from/ uncomfortable pasts/ and mistakes/ are great lessons.// Sometimes you just/ make your best friends/ in the most/ unlikely places/ and at the/ worst times.// There is still/ beauty/ here.// -M. Rene’
The pastel ghosts are a trend in my personal notebooks that bled into my latest chap book release: How Many Drafts to Home and if you don’t already have a copy you can find it on Amazon or www.sincerelybluejay.com
A breeze comes from the east
and I pull up my shirt to feel it on my belly.
All around me, people smile and
the dogs being walked lift their noses
and don’t even bark, because
when a breeze comes from the east
it means the southern Sierra has decided to share
a good thing with the valley
and remind us that there’s more to life
than just this incessant heat because
when a breeze comes from the east
it plays with hats not tied down on our heads and
the kids on the soccer field run a little faster
and a mother pushes the swing a little harder and
all humanity just feels a little more human when
a breeze comes from the east.
“Push me, Daddy!”
“Higher.”
“Higher!”
The giggles are loud and infectious as my toes touch the sky.
The colors swirl around me, becoming one as I fly through them.
Knowing he is behind me,
I live in the moment, enjoying the thrill.
“Push me, Daddy!”
“Higher.”
I smile ear-to-ear as my toes graze the tops of the fields.
The steady colors lining my vision.
Knowing he is behind me,
I enjoy the moment.
“Push me, Daddy!”
I close my eyes and smile, as my toes scrape across the ground.
The colorful flowers sitting on the side.
Knowing he is behind me,
I treasure the moment.
“Push me, Baby Girl.”
His smile is warm as he picks up his feet.
The touch of his hand comforting, as he places it on mine.
And knowing I am behind him,
I thank God for this moment.
Image Courtesy of Pixabay
Picking white and ruby poppies,
Beneath a sky of cobalt, I see
Nature’s tapestry unfurling, carelessly,
Amidst fields of dreams, waving free.
In the gentle breeze, whispers of grace,
Picking white and ruby poppies,
Each petal’s touch, a soft embrace,
In this tranquil haven, I find my place.
Time slows down in this sacred space,
Nature’s beauty, an eternal chase,
Picking white and ruby poppies.
In its embrace, I find solace and grace.
As the day’s colors gently wane,
In this moment, all worries drain,
In the heart of nature, I remain,
Picking white and ruby poppies.
Antoinette LeRoux © 2023
Phantoms concealed within the mind’s records,
Nostalgic memories etched in the mind’s pages,
The memories shared with childhood friends,
To rekindle the joys of moments of past
Some faces have faded from the memories
Phantoms concealed within the mind’s records,
The forgotten names, remembrances misplaced,
They must be reconnected with their mannerisms
The growing older faces’ outlines, unidentified
Marked them as the senior folks, aging faces
Phantoms concealed within the mind’s archives,
Must be identified with the help of any clues.
Some have emptied their existence,
While others persist as if neglected orphans,
They are the last entries on the final pages,
Phantoms concealed within the mind’s repository.
PROMPT-POETIC FORM HOUR-7