24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
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.
(Frosted by Robert’s words)
Older now, and tired.
I just want to take
the quiet road.
**hour 13, written off-site and posting late**
Velvet Ribbons
Something in my eye—is it gloom again?
A myth made for morose men
Tells of those chosen by subliminal declamations,
Who scream at the sky and one-sided reflections.
Shells I wish not to collect,
Resound after an emptiness that forebodes catastrophe.
Esprit de corps and an emotionless elect,
Survives in the torment of the earth and mind, the decimation of body.
A star of serenity shackled in the dark,
Cringes as all but a heart hung dry.
Lead fingertips and sullen footsteps refrain distance beyond the mark,
And rivers like strands of string dangle over the edge.
Visions of a disembarking vessel down murky lanes,
And voices captivate my memory locked away from hearing;
Traveling tranquility trails on an endless turn of a road.
Never did I remember to check the time.
Hungry will I be by tomorrow as soon as tomorrow remembers.
Wheels crunch the dirt of the road,
My eyes are but passerby,
And latched hands are unlatching the door.
Shimmering rays of gold brighten up the field.
Barley brought in for the season,
Fidgety wagons creaking down wide bridle paths of grey,
And stained slacks and happiness are opening the farmhouse door.
A vague recollection unintended,
The house needs to be painted soon.
Chips away every second for a memory:
Exchanged till cessation decides to make an arrival.
Fluttering laced dress, white on the smoothness of skin,
Summer eyes and lucidity of complexion, says to me,
“Supper smells wonderful, my dear.”
And these memories of simplicity and warmth echo, as I am homely once again.
Removal of miniscule expectancy,
Deafness succumbed to repulsions to and fro,
Are incessant trifles to the shocked of heart.
Suddenly the rampart of soundness has been breached.
Returning to a hundred miles distant:
Crisp and flowing wind through golden crops
Consoles me, and a rampant grey is shunning the sun,
While bursting forces shatter the stems and splinter the earth.
“You silly.”
Breezes of complaisant remnants return over my heedless frame,
“My sweet, there is something I must tell you—”
As velvet ribbons clothe my fading attention.
(a haibun)
My mama always said there are no good moves. Something always gets lost. Something always gets broken. Some last minute much-needed kitchen item winds up in a box marked Bathroom. There isn’t enough packing tape in all the universe for all of Granny’s heirloom eggs, which are on their 11th move in 20 years. We survey the world around us and deem many things we were just using yesterday as unfit for cardboard travel; relegate them to garage sale piles and secondhand store fodder. We fold our losses and fill the boxes and ask ourselves, What’s worth keeping?
Pack up all you are.
Arrive on the other side
fragile, and less whole.
**hour 12, written off-site and posting later.**
Dearest Smoofinator,
veteran of the wars
survivor many times over
in whom deep valor abides
at this moment the most meaningful gesture of love and respect I could offer?
To clean your neglected litter box
I sally forth on said task now
with apologies
sincere
Here’s the thing
I grew up in your shadow
Everyday
Your darkness
Drowned my sunlight
I couldn’t compete
Everyone flocked to you
You were the rock star
The violent one
The crazy one
I stood back hidden in the shadow
I raised your kids
Soothed their wounds
Hell I still do
I love you I do
But I am tired
Tired of being the shadow
Tired of licking wounds
I am out of salve and patience
I warn people
I do
They never listen
They don’t really know you
They see what I want to see
The fun, the laugh
But I know what is underneath
I have been there
Thru it all
I know your shadows are darker
Your crazy is deeper
Your haunting laugh
Is as phony as your tears
You aren’t real
You never were
I know that because I was there
You are the shallow end of the pond
The pretty flowers don’t go very deep
The petals blow away quickly
I suppose you don’t mean
To hurt the ones who love you
But you always do
Always
I wonder if love even lives
Inside that heart of yours
Encased in faux gold
Crusted with cubic zirconia
I guess I sound bitter
It hurts to watch
You slay them all
One by one
No one sees you do it
No one understands it
Only me
And I am hiding in the shadows
Where you put me long ago.