24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Arrrrghhh this was a tough one. Ended up creating a so-so poem using a range of pick n mix candy/sweet names.
#26
fruit sours
& an apple drops
as the flying saucer
sherbets overhead
skittles warheads
toxic waste
atomic fireballs
liquorice ropes
with a sour
rainbow twist
#1. First one of the lot 🙂
War ground to a halt.
It was a bloody war.
And seemed like it would never end.
Too much ammunition.
Too much at stake.
But peace was declared,
Armies disbanded.
There are tremors of the old conflict
In the minds of old men
Who can’t forget what was normal in youth.
All others, though, have adapted
To amity,
To goodwill.
The children of today’s children
Will read in dusty books
Of warfare, of sides drawn,
And it won’t make sense
That this was ever so.
Grass and new forest will cover
The deep scars in the earth
Made by so many bomb blasts.
When I see the dandelion
Reminds me of the weeding
In the garden my grandma
Full of native wisdom
from the sun dark-skinned
kneeling with her cane
Leaning on her cane
poking its end at the offending dandelion
wrinkled in the sun dark-skinned
in her childhood of farming and weeding
she gained so much wisdom
what she had gained, my grandma
I miss my grandma
and her wooden cane
from abuse she gained such wisdom
and her laugh delightful as a dandelion
her laughs did not need weeding
she was more than dark-skinned
in her time those dark-skinned
not like everyone’s grandma
obsessed with dandelion weeding
all summer leaning on her cane
I would make a wreath of dandelion
crown my head in her wisdom
now here i walk in wisdom
like her I walk dark-skinned
making medicine with the dandelion
not like my grandma
not yet in my hand, her cane
my hands know by heart the weeding
with my bare, brown hands I learn weeding
taking and leaving, weeding wisdom
use my fingers to point at each cane
I walk this world dark-skinned
how do I emulate my grandma
draw a tattoo of a dandelion
through life the weeding, in life run dark-skinned
with simple wisdom I am my grandma
one day I’ll have her cane wreathed in dandelion
In the deep midnight blue
hidden in the creche dark
came the softest, sweetest song
a crooning, lowing lullaby baby
to a green-jealous moon
and a stilling heart.
The private audience heart
in that deepening blue
did watch a blushing moon
beam in the dark
a tune sweet to a baby
a wordless honey-breath song.
the tender-voiced song
whose refrain touched heart
to a restful, sleepy baby
with delicate closed eyes blue
in the fading dark
to a waning moon.
And to the sickly moon
not a gentle crooning song
in the predawn dark
but from a loving heart
to that sweet boy blue
the loved restful baby.
That handsome baby
whose jealous moon
paled green from blue
of that hummed song
from now a wishful heart
in the slowly lighting dark.
And from the lighting dark
there stirred a sleeping baby
in the gentle loved heart
far from that weak moon
a love song
to a coming blue.
No longer to linger dark nor ill moon
stirred my dear baby my singing song
from one full heart to eyes of blue.
I cannot fight on
In this battle of loss;
I surrender without condition.
The harder I lift you
With my ebbing strength;
The closer I get to perdition.
write a sestina?
well…. that was the prompt-
hmmm, but i don’t want to think that deep
that my mind explodes-
nor curves into some dark corner unable to emerge-
so that no amount of prompting will be able to lift me out.
write a sestina?
hmmm….no, not right now.
instead i’m going to cap this off right here
eat a powdered donut and like kermit, sip my tea –
and i will wait patiently
for someone else’s brilliant stroke of genius to erupt
and i promise i will be amazed.
I am thankful for life
Living with my love
it is a good thing to have wealth
My time is my health
Enjoying the fun
what a reality
Right back to reality
there is more to life
than just fun
try some love
take care of your health
maintain your wealth
In the thing we call love there is fun
more health and wealth
It is the reality of life
Sacrifice
Virginia Carraway Stark
Down they pushed him
His head under the soil
And under the wheels
Of the combine harvester
Blood for the crops
His young face
Once full of smiles
and his young body
With his knocked knees
And a scrape that
He tried not to cry over
But he still
Cried a little
Even though he made his voice brave
A sacrifice was demanded
To make the corn grow tall
His body the offering
Bloody blades
Turn the soil
My branches reach out
My roots are grounded
But there is no more room
I am aching to stretch
To reach, to dance
But resolved, restricted, bound
Restless is the word
Constricted, non- growing, dying
Rocking, to break the pot