24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hugs <3 🙂
Virginia Carraway Stark
Hugs across the miles
Bring me tons of smiles
Because I know
You are glad I am alive
And happy that
I'm in your world
And when you send me
'<3'
It means the world to me
Because I know
That you likely smile
When you see
Me post
Or send a message
Or comment
To you
So thank you for your hugs
Your <3
And your
🙂
Faces
You make me smile too
And every time I see you post
I'm glad that I know you
Two fairytale-esque pieces that I was working on simultaneously & ran out of time on each. The Mother Goose mash-up replaces the traditional end of lines from the nursery rhyme, with the relevant bingo call. The plot, such that it is, kinda dictated itself based on the pre-exisiting rhymes.
#32
There was a young gal covered in tattoos
Who only knew how to buckle her shoes
—–—–But would Cinderella
—–—–Have landed her fella
If she wore more than ink … & her Jimmy Choo’s
*****
A Dark Mother Goose Bingo Mashup
One, two,
—–all you can do is buckle your shoe;
Three, four,
—–wait for that knock at the door;
Five, six,
—–when silent screen hero Tom Mix;
Seven, eight,
—–rides up to the garden gate:
Nine, ten,
—–finally you’ll be free of Dave’s Den;
Eleven, twelve,
—–one dozen years here you’ve dwelled
Thirteen, fourteen,
—–since Valentine’s Day 2003;
Fifteen, sixteen,
—–sweet sixteen never been seen
Seventeen, eighteen,
—–coming of age, living in a cage
Nineteen, twenty,
—–one score to settle, none too gently
#26. Hmmm, could be tricky…
PS now have 3 out 5 for my first possible BINGO of the day.
The Love that Won’t Let Go
It utterly amazes me that we can still love the same
raw way we did back when we were both less tired,
less torn up by the falling down lives we’re acting out.
Whatever magic your eyes let go in the dark barroom
a quarter century ago, still has power over my breathing
and your strong hands always find what belongs to you.
From the screaming passion that turns physical
to the hushed relief in a hospital room the day after
I tried to leave my life because you had led the way.
I can’t say why we are tied together; karma or
willed by some god, or the destiny we’ve chosen
for ourselves: to love the other to a strange madness
that is always undoing itself, spiting it’s own validity.
But I cannot unlove your eyes that are home to me.
I return to you like a warm fire on a bitter night.
just packed up my entire place
cleared out every room
folded it all neatly into brown cardboard boxes
bubble-wrapped every piece of china and all my asian art
tucked it into a giant storage bin
no place in particular
that it needs to be just yet
but i sense that every single thing
is somehow missing me.
Awesomely amazing.
Breathtakingly beautiful.
Cataclysmic collision.
Devastatingly daunting.
Energetically enigmatic.
Fantastically funny.
Gloriously gifted.
Hauntingly hypnotic.
Interestingly inventive.
Joyously jolting.
Keenly kindred.
Lovingly lavish.
Maximum magnificence.
Notorious notoriety.
Ostentatious oneness.
Pensively peculiar.
Quizzically quaint.
Radically robust.
Satisfyingly sensational.
Tantalizingly tasty.
Understandably unique.
Vivaciously victorious.
Wonderfully welcome.
Xenodochial xenial.
Youthful yearning.
Zenith Zen.
Neon ribbons through the darkened clouds
Staring through eyelid slits, ignoring the objects that are closer than they appear
Taking advantage of the loving support that provides, cleans and walks the dog so I can pursue my whims
I want a ukulele for our wedding anniversary. I want one for each of us.
I don’t know how to play
The tones please me, so I justify that if I don’t have a ukulele I will never have the chance.
I allow John to indulge me.
I allow others to see strengths that are illusions and I deem are realities.
Forgive me my selfishness.
I do not know how to be other.
Coming Home from Dinner
After dinner sky
sweeter than any dessert–
Whipped pink and white froth
On the horizon,
blue-grey clouds, jagged and thick,
like mountain ranges
You’d prefer I make things pretty
So I’m writing this for you –
Does my melancholy startle?
Does it sully your crisp view?
Am I making you uncomfortable,
With my less-than-perfect words;
Where losses count as beauty
And expression is a purge?
My depths no longer frighten me
With their peaks, and derring-do.
The only question left then, is:
Do your depths frighten you?
There’s almost something tangible here, don’t you think?
An answer at the end of the tunnel,
The words pouring out like wine into the glass,
The purring of the purpose,
I hear you speak, what keeps you so silent for so long?
I know the way we were going,
And then we stuck to order, and patterns,
Stuck to old ways,
Destroyed ourselves in the process,
Watching the villages go up in flames,
The master of the way we knew.
The people who knew us,
We knew nothing apparently.
Madness.
I suppose as the day lingers,
The senses grow sharper and the emotions go deeper,
Running rampant, in you and in I.
I want to know what it feels like to be a Maker.
To be able to see and hold the Earth’s raw materials in hand,
And be able to create anything imaginable from them.
I can only imagine what it must be like,
To not only have the knowledge of every tool for the job,
But to also be the perfect tool yourself.
To be able to make come to pass whatever comes to your mind.
Molding earth and stone to your will,
And changing the unbridled wind and raging river to do yiud biding.
That power would be the greatest ecstasy,
And the most amazing purpose,
That I could ever dream of.