Petit Larceny
Everything
Is as
Nothing
Getting
Is as
Giving
Cursing
Is as
Caring
The difference
Is as
The division
ON MY WAY TO HEAVEN
HOUR SIXTEEN
POEM # 16
24 HOUR
POEM
MARATHON
ON MY WAY TO HEAVEN
On my way to heaven
What a journey it will be
On my way to see Jesus
And give him his glory
My life’s work
On this earth is done
And my final journey
Has just begun
Thank you Dear Jesus
For blessings you give
Thank you Dear Jesus
For teaching us to live
Thank you Dear Jesus
For dying on the cross
Thank you Dear Jesus
For comforting our loss
On my way to Heaven
What a journey it will be
On my way to see Jesus
And give him his glory
My life’s work
On this earth is done
And my final jouney
Has just begun
Written by Carl Mann
The kurlman
6-13-2015
Thank you Dear Jesus
For giving your love
Thank you Dear Jesus
For heaven above
Thank you Dear Jesus
For showing the way
Thank you Dear Jesus
For guidness today
On my way to heaven
What a journey it will be
On my way to see Jesus
And give him his glory
My life’s work
On this earth is done
And my final journey
Has just begun
Thank you Dear Jesus
For hearing our plea
Thank you Dear Jesus
For listening to me
Thank you Dear Jesus
For walking this earth
Thank you Dear Jesus
For giving us birth
One More Bite
Just
One
More
Tiny
Bite.
And I am heavier than before
In underwear too tight to bear.
A closet full of pretty clothes,
Designs I used to wear.
I
Was
So
Fair!
But wine and burgers
Fries and steaks
In those few moments
Merry make
This
Fat
Blob
Of
Take
Take
Take
Just one more bite.
Poem #16
I wonder how much you think you know me.
I mean, according to many, my emotions are an open book,
and I have no talent for telling tall-tales,
even if my life depended on it.
I definitely wouldn’t be able to play poker.
But those are all very obvious, very visual.
Deep down, how well do you know me?
Can you follow the rambling, off-course plummet of my train of thought?
Don’t get distracted by the tracks,
I barely use them anymore.
If we got into a heated argument,
would you know what part of it could drive me to tears?
Or why?
That kind of backstory,
only a select few are privy to such things.
If you feel you know me,
I’d be interested to see what you think you know about me.
And trust me,
I don’t appreciate poking and prying,
whether it be with clummsy bare hands,
or the precision of a surgeon with a scalpel.
Midnight
The hour of recrimination and poltergeists
Relaxed on my cloud, tears seep from my eyes.
I don’t want to know what makes me sad
I want to ignore it.
Racing thoughts disappear and it’s a struggle to remember the details. Only shells of emotions are left.
I wander through their cave-like structures marveling how I have become quite talented at pretentiousness.
I Try Not to Think About #15/24
I Try Not to Think About
the private jokes we shared
our favorite pink pajamas on Christmas morning
sleeping in the old white Chevy
touching tongues because it felt funny
giggling till we couldn’t catch our breath
fighting over the blankets at grandma’s
your morning grouchiness
getting caught with boys in the house
dancing to Three Dog Night
sneaking down the television antennae
and into the freedom of a summer night
late bonfire bashes at “the tree”
sneaking in drunk after curfew
sharing the stick shift, dark green Vega
locking the keys in the car at the
Steve Miller Band concert
crying together after your abortion
holding your head in my lap
while you sobbed over something
I couldn’t change
for the first time
of many more to come.
Sonnet for Tonk
The Medicine Man in Hill City
rode in on a Crazy Horse.
While I struggled to hold his committee
I was swept into his light source.
Behind his golden gates
stretched across heaven and Earth
he told me of many fates
tied directly to my rebirth.
So then, a journey to the Wheel.
Miles of walking up the road
ripped away all I tried to conceal.
Layed out there, the way was showed.
While coming down, the raven called
to me, and Earth, on which I crawled.
Reruns Before the New Season
Sometimes I try to do as others always say you should do when you feel, say, your lip tremble for a split-hair second
when you realize that she never calls
And when she does it’s basically to pretend for whoever she’s around that I’m even a blip on her radar screen
throughout the course of her day-to-day goings-ons
As though she suddenly snapped out of some bout with amnesia
and miraculously remembers everything
as though she hasn’t been out of frame for the last several seasons of the show
Like she can walk back in
And demand the producers resurrect her character
from the most recent death she suffered;
the last being the fatal fall
she had when she slipped on a stick of butter
while making oatmeal.
Just one in a long, long list of necromantic revivals.
You get so tired of writing her
in and out of the cast
that you finally just say,
“Enough is enough!”
and resurrect her zombie of a character,
one last time…
…to be played by a different actress.
That way, you don’t have to worry
whether or not she will be on set for her scene
Or have to wonder
if she even cares that she is holding up
the entire production- cast, crew, staff, the writer (that’s me)
every time she injects herself
only to eject herself,
with a quickness like Jackie Joyner-Kersee
But then there is the sadness,
the whimpering emptiness
that she cuts out of you,
leaving a void of blistered lacerations
and pink, fleshy scar-tissue.
You ask yourself,
“What is the difference between now and then?”
trying to find the good memories
Of a time when she cared,
before she shut the world out,
before whatever cog shot loose
and she quit loving you
Which is the moment
the numbing truth of the matter sets in
and you realize
that you don’t recall any so-called happier days
Because she’s always been
like this, to some degree, on some level
And on some level, to some degree,
she will always be like this
But you will carry her weight,
not because she deserves it
or because she’s changed
Not because she’s earned it
or because she does or doesn’t call
to ask about your day,
your week,
your month,
your year.
It’s because she is your mother,
and it is what a son should do,
because you hope
that if the shoe were on the other foot
That she would
do it for you
Hell, that she would
do it for herself
But in the back of your mind,
you always knew
That life isn’t fairy dust and rainbows
And that those sorts of wishes
don’t ever come true
Hurting is this one’s heart
This story
My story
The story of a broken son
And his broken Mom.
The Pen is Mightier
I pour my memories through this pen
Climbing down the lines and margins
The maturing letters bond and stretch
They burn my eyes with their truth
Fresh paper loses its virginity
When thoughts become written word
They stain and press themselves
Like gravel into a knee
The fibers scream and beg
Pulling apart, coming undone
The ink comes to the surface
Bright and vibrant and new
My last poem for the half marathon–THE TWELVE HOURS
THE TWELVE HOURS
When at the eleventh hour,
The final whistle travels by the air.
The workaholics stand to the podium!
The podium becomes a pinnacle
For the survivors
Once my eyes stuck on the screen
As I laid beside the rippling river to the east
Silently I gazed in the sky
For I sat on countless hours
That the clock may chime one o’clock!
Leaves wobbling through the woods
That they might fall on my forehead
As I finally opened the gifted casket
Then I recap a tone from a throne
That to gain is to sacrifice
The nightingale whispers
Through the air into my ears
Telling me of a poetry marathon
Yes! The twelve
And the twenty four hours journey!
A Journey I then chose
From the jingling of my veins!
The Half marathon!
(C)2015 All Rights Reserved
Kofi Acquah