24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Day has dawned.
There is comfort in this, somehow.
The cat is looking for breakfast.
He is early and gently enthusiastic.
The diurnal world will now come to life.
I will slowly take my place in it,
Slowly,
In as many hours as I can avoid it,
Because it is still the hour for yogis.
And though I aspire endlessly to be one,
I will not appear to be one this morning.
I would be happy to be a poet-saint instead,
Even just a little bit.
You are my favorite
food group. Thank you for
your brewing,
brooding ways,
your dark deep
stirrings, your
faithful
dry roasted boost.
No matter how many
lumps I take, no matter
how low the day goes,
there is always a
mermaid mug
of Joe.
**hour 14, written off-site and posting late**
The will to move. To sweat.
To feel the breath of my life
Cough forth from my lungs
Escapes me, like a fly.
In the kitchen I forget
The need to feel the strife
Of movement as my tongue
Tastes fat and sugar for my thigh.
“Oh honey, you’re too pretty
To be so fat. You need to lose
Some weight!” Said the bigot
Who hates all those unlike herself.
Had I the will to move… A pity
To blame it all upon the booze.
If only I could close the spigot
And live a life more like an elf.
So gracefully I’d move and play
And sing and dance each lovely day.
When considering colours, remember: regrettably,the most common is magnolia
When considering honesty, remember: most people, given the choice, would prefer a dose of amnesia
When considering imagination, remember: despite it’s superiority, it’s widely considered an affront to academia
When considering ambitions, remember: that although you protest, if you continue to write, you might, no you must include bibliomania
When considering people, remember: your theory about the destruction of DNA – your immortality depends on avoiding bacteria
When considering a destination, remember: take the scenic route always but ultimately, head to bohemia
(c) Gemma Hinton 14/6/15
did I ever tell you,
how proud you have made me,
for a time
you seemed to lose your way;
and how could you not
after life treated you in such a way;
yet, here you stand
bruised and battered,
once again
you have picked yourself up;
one thing
you must remember
when life is coming,
always stand tall
By: KMH 2015
Twin Lights
He cannot see the end of the road.
All the water has gone dry, tasting bitter.
Filthy, pitiful hands scratch on the parchment,
Plying at words forsaken and accident.
At his neck hang thy lock and thy persimmon,
Resuming constant delay without permission,
As the earth moves beneath and behind,
And he is conveyed forward as if on a belt.
For merely pondering a single inquiry
Thrown into the deepest ditch at the side of the road,
He asks roundabout for his destination,
Haplessly finding no such abode.
Why did you leave the keys on the table?
Because I did not think I was able
To keep myself alive
Long enough, to turn the key and drive.
The wind blows the question along;
Deserts of blizzards whistle sheer,
Playing an empty cadenza of a song,
And a single car passing disrupts all this only for a moment.
Tassels of icicles are suspended on branches, and the fire—
It is crying, aching, dying out
Within his heart, smoldering on the route,
Given the circumstance that no telegram can wire.
And in his pocket, wrinkled and worn,
Lies the parchment with one last sentence:
Irritably the finality of frozen desire, edges torn,
In penmanship expressed with such calm clairvoyance.
At his side glimmers in transience
A steel lustre in sombre fluorescence
Handled so delicately, mirrored with existence,
Trudging along with reminiscent persistence.
And plunged into his very heart, this steel lustre
After an echoing silence he cries out, without audience,
“Teacher, I’ve finally the Answer!”
And scenery fades—twin lights returning to incidence.
You whose eyes I knew at once
As eyes are windows to the soul
a face familiar as my own
from when we met so long ago
soul mates you may have more than one
good friends are soul mates too
though our “ship” is struggling so
I know that I need you
Again we met; kismet, this life
and how you understand each time
when we’re alone our secret strifes
emerge and we recognize our souls sublime
Soul mates you may have more than one
but your soul is the one I want.
i will never grow tired of taking out a pan-
chopping up an onion, some celery and butter
with a firm green pepper-
that is always the beginning of something good;
the smell from that alone
waffles through the house like a
“mommy’s-in-the-kitchen alarm.
add in some ground beef or turkey, almost any meat will do-
then boil some potatoes until the fork pierces easily through.
Steam up some broccoli or carrots and peas-
it really doesn’t matter at all.
I will never grow tired of setting the tables with plates,
folding the napkins and placing the glasses just so-
then yelling out “it’s dinnertime”
so everyone will know.
Then to watch them scurry round, take some kisses on the cheek-
then sit around the table, knowing they will enjoy whatever they eat.
Inflection
The void is compact within a balloon; it could pop and be out of my hands any time.
The trees hold up the sky so it does not fall.
Take a brick and put it in the wall.
Is reality here or did you put it in the closet again?
Something knocked on the door: I am not home.
She is still standing and I am rolling on the stormy sea.
Somebody will you help me!
Ceaselessly the waves cascade.
She is still standing and I am wandering in the woods.
Somebody will you find me!
Glimmering her eyes, the colour of these summer leaves.
She is still standing and I haven’t a clue of where my shoes went.
Wither the wind blows—hither I hear her footsteps play soft upon the ground.
Refine the diamond all you want—it will never shimmer as radiantly as she.
Why buy a spirit at the store when you already have one?
They do not even sell any.
Take a picture.
Remember how to remember.
A time better than this one.
Forget forgetful things; best leave them forgotten for now.
The void becomes stamps null.
A happy balloon for her.
Someone knocked on the door: she is home and so am I.