24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Have you been drunk before?
Like totally
not able to stand
or walk
without support..
In your mind
you are doing stuff
In reality
nothing
just sitting
or lying down..
Your mind
takes you to the moon
heart is lost somewhere ..
But the feelings
are in search
to flee
from the cage
our brain…
The air was too heavy
And I couldn’t breathe
Too sick to speak out
To God what I need
Don’t leave me in silence
To hear every sound
Late flight of bird
And foot on the ground
If he wants to speak
Let it be now
For my head is lost
In wandering cloud
A little girl of almost nine,
Gets called to the Mother Superior’s office, with the rest of her family.
None of her brothers or sisters comply with the intercom request. They were never called to the office. They never got into trouble.
It’s a mistake, they think, telepathically. Mother Superior meant to call down a similar sounding Polish name.
We were told our neighbor will pick us up. We will meet our parents at a coffee shop.
There was a fire. No one was hurt. There was a fire. No one was hurt.
Thank God.
We live with our oldest brother’s family until our house is rebuilt. Fifteen people. Two bedrooms. One bathroom.
I no longer could complain of hand me down clothes and toys. I now had only charity clothes. There must have been toys. I don’t remember toys.
Fast forward forty-two years.
I attend a speaking engagement of John O’Leary’s.
Google him.
Gut-wrenching sobs for childhoods lost. Co-workers around the table, uncomfortably avoiding my eyes. Distancing themselves from me.
I wasn’t there. I wasn’t burned. Why are you crying? No one was hurt in your fire.
Material possessions are just immaterial.
Things are taken for granted in our lives of too muchness.
Until it isn’t there.
If I could save one thing from a fire., I would. It doesn’t matter what it is – it earns importance as a survivor of fire.
A life in boxes and crates: 30 years.
Thirty years of research in archives
and no thought of giving it away.
Libraries say they’ll take good care
and grant access any time, within
reason, 9 to 4, five days a week.
What about midnight on Christmas Eve,
when I need to read the diary notes
of Rose Wilder Lane or Elizabeth Bishop,
Edna St. Vincent Millay or Mrs. Lindbergh?
Most people relocate furniture, photos, appliances,
and clothes. Here is scholarly detritus enough to
fill a garage, a walk-in closet, and then some.
Dividing myself between four abodes – an apartment,
two houses, and a condo – none of them mine, I grow
unsettled and wistful to visit my things.
My books, especially, I miss with great longing,
although a well-stocked Kindle helps. But some
will never be scanned, digitalized, online at my
command. These are the books I swear to protect.
And my own diaries and manuscripts – they will not
be carted off to the bowels of an institution. For as
long as I can, I will keep them with me, and safe.
What one physical object (I am not talking about your dog or cat or baby, but a possession) would you save in case of a fire? Your prompt this hour is to write a poem about that possession.
——————————————————————————————————————-
It saddens me to think
that if the fire came today,
would my guitar or laptop—
music or words—go my way?
Ipod
Dear Ipod, I am selfish, inexplicably selfish
For all my love for you, is actually blemished
My desires for you spring from despondency
You prevent my lone soliloquy
You bring me the companionship
That I failed to find in kinship
You aid my escape
Into worlds I reshape
You bring reason to chaos
My Amos!
But I repeat, my love is tarnished
For had I not been banished
By all I loved
You would not have been so loved
They multiply at night like rabbits.
The boxes, oh, the boxes…
Taking over my home.
Oh, how they all roam!
Filled with things I do not need.
Oh, sooooooo heavy…
I imagine the match and I light it with my mind…
Motionless and stale
The air is suffocating.
Clueless and pale
Grasp, swing, fighting
Eyes open wide
Darkness draws near.
Get out and hide
Cry, scream, fear
Hour 17
It’s 7:25
Nighttime on Maui
Twelve hours ago we flipped off lights
Now they are back on
Cat is ready for his nightly jaunts
My body craves sleep and normalcy
I don’t remember either
Words struggle with me now
Taunting me
Hiding behind who I thought I was
Crunch time
This is when the marathon sizzles
It wisps and quakes
Shrivels us inside out
I have been whipped by the sestina
Don’t remember my possessions
And if my sister reads that poem
It will be all over
I am numb inside and out
Coffee will be in my near future
So will that bag of chips
I promised to eat in small controlled amounts
A forgotten soul in a worn out body
I ignore my back pain
I look to the end
Hold to the present
The past is just jumbled words
Memory salad, word punch
I don’t remember who I used to be
Maybe I never knew
On June thirteenth in 1951,
Daddy bought his first car
I recall he took us with him
to the dealership at DeLabar Chevrolet
a four-door sedan, dark green
Mom and Dad sat in the front
Carol, Vivian and I sat in the back,
always arguing about who
would sit in the middle
every time we drove somewhere we
were annoyed by one sister
touching another, rude to the other.
In the front Daddy would be disagreeable
annoyed by something Mom had done
or said or because we argued in the back.
he would be cross, yell, swear at another car
who got in his way, or drove too slowly.
Cranky, we hoped he would see something
to take his mind off his anger or calm him down.
It was always tense, fearful, unhappy.
most of the trips were to his family
or a few summer drives somewhere to
where I can’t remember where.
On the way to grandma and grandpa
we always passed a house that had been yellow
then was painted lavender, I once
said I liked the color, Mom laughed
and would remind us that was Marie’s house.
Each time we laughed and hoped it would
coax Daddy out of his sour mood, too.
Then we would ride until we reached our
destination, happy to be with others
who would not be angry with us for
whatever it was we did, or for what the
world had done, or something we
hardly understood where his anger lay.