24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I’m scared of heights
But it’s where all the extras are stored
I’ve been living a very small life contained
On this plateau
I’ve been told it’s essential
to learn how to bungy jump
How to zip wire and how to abseil
To see the splendour of other side
The Ultimate Statistic
Everyone will die
of this there is no doubt.
People spout stats about
COVID, car accidents and such.
I do know one sure fact
everyone will die.
Twenty per cent of this
forty per cent of that.
I can state as a matter of fact
that one hundred per cent of
everyone will die
at some time in their lives.
No matter if one runs triathalons
or eats no meat, or doesn/t smoke.
Our bodies are not immortal
everyone will die.
Hair swaying in the not so gentle wind
As feet fly up to reach the sky
It’s not the creaking of the old swing
But your laughter that I hear
As I stand across the sunflower field
I see the flowers facing
Not sun, but you in full radiance
As your happiness warms up the sorroundings
And remind me of a forgotten time
When I was there on the other side..
Not a spectator of present
Not a spectre of past
But there just in the moment
With hair swaying in the not so gentle wind
And feet flying to reach the sky.
I peer forward,
mesmerized by
the emptiness of space.
Blackness so thick
one could put their
arms in it and not fall.
Falling into the darkness
lights whiz by creating
arcing rainbow bridges.
A burst of brilliance
as first one sun and then another
fight for dominance over it all.
Into the miasma I sink deeper
until finally there is
nothingness.
A time for living
cannot be every day
if you live it up
all night.
You need to see
a time for living
is as much to behold
when studying.
Save time for prayer
It helps the soul
A time for living
includes it all.
A walk in the forest
following trails of trees
will continue to be
a time for living.
It is a wooden board held aloft by a double cordage of rope.
The wind pushes the spirit of the girl who once was like an invisible hand.
Once it stood on rough, dry ground where the metal poles were moored,
But now a sea of sunflowers root it in place.
The breeze carries the faint sound of the girl’s laughter from long ago,
It can be heard between the silence and the sun.
The girl is gone now, too old for childish games,
But the swing waits in the company of the sunflowers hoping for her return.
– Diana Kristine
Poem no 5
I have a series of paintings in red and black.
Some sixteen of them in all.
Before I did not like the colour black
And rarely used red.
Then I developed bad headaches
They did not leave me day nor night
And I had a real fright.
I started painting in red and black
They all showed people in fearful pain
With buildings burning going in flame
Such fearful sights that I did see
Days and nights in nightmares.
I painted a woman in a pit
With vultures feeding on it.
Then a phoenix arose from the fire
The woman put on a new attire
My headaches left me and I got fit
I am in love with red and black.
My canvasses are full of rivers of blood
With black oozing out like night
I find it such a restful sight.
Red and black has given me a new vision
A deep insight and understanding
To love the archetypal and old
As they are both pure gold.
—
Poem no 5
I have a series of paintings in red and black.
Some sixteen of them in all.
Before I did not like the colour black
And rarely used red.
Then I developed bad headaches
They did not leave me day nor night
And I had a real fright.
I started painting in red and black
They all showed people in fearful pain
With buildings burning going in flame
Such fearful sights that I did see
Days and nights in nightmares.
I painted a woman in a pit
With vultures feeding on it.
Then a phoenix arose from the fire
The woman put on a new attire
My headaches left me and I got fit
I am in love with red and black.
My canvasses are full of rivers of blood
With black oozing out like night
I find it such a restful sight.
Red and black has given me a new vision
A deep insight and understanding
To love the archetypal and old
As they are both pure gold.
Poem no 5
I have a series of paintings in red and black.
Some sixteen of them in all.
Before I did not like the colour black
And rarely used red.
Then I developed bad headaches
They did not leave me day nor night
And I had a real fright.
I started painting in red and black
They all showed people in fearful pain
With buildings burning going in flame
Such fearful sights that I did see
Days and nights in nightmares.
I painted a woman in a pit
With vultures feeding on it.
Then a phoenix arose from the fire
The woman put on a new attire
My headaches left me and I got fit
I am in love with red and black.
My canvasses are full of rivers of blood
With black oozing out like night
I find it such a restful sight.
Red and black has given me a new vision
A deep insight and understanding
To love the archetypal and old
As they are both pure gold.
—
No. 4
Hockney is the greatest living British Painter
Melvin Bragg is his buddy
They Broth grew up in working class families
In the north of England
Hackney was in Bradford
And Bragg was in Wigton in Cumbria
Hackney’s father restored prams for a living
Hackney carried all his art materials in a pram
and wheeled it to school.
And painted in five classes a week.
He went to America and became famous.
Now he has a big house in Normandy
And also a large Mansion in Bridlington
He wears a cloth cap and looks like a
Country Bumpkin
And is extremely dead
I am not fond of his portraits
Brag’s portrait is not to my taste
But his landscapes are just so beautiful
His stain glass windows in the Windsor Chapel are
Just divine! —
Giant tapestries splash across the wall
silhouettes dotting the room
Art Deco in spatial wisdom
and Van Gogh so vividly abloom
The passing ship of clouds
the jagged and snowy summit
a horizon of the tallest pines
and rugged hills the plummet
Interior designs of French Country
watercolour in blanched serenity
wrap-around Regency homes
and graceful scenes of lenity
the winding roads of autumn
the pure white of Christmas Eve
the icy cold blue of the oceans
and a twinkling lake’s reprieve
Both man and nature weave
when true honest passion lives
a partnership as we steward
this remarkable place that gives
Hour 3
The rains came last night in the desert,
the ground already drenched from
last week’s tropical storm.
I followed my usual after work routine –
treadmill, stretching, dinner.
As I was in part 2 of the routine,
the stretching portion,
I heard a crash.
Boxes stashed out of sight had fallen over in the office,
the one room
aside from the garage that had not been sorted.
I stepped in the water as I went to straighten the boxes;
shut the door, returning to my yoga mat
and continued stretching.
Annoyance at the thought of my evening plans being interrupted,
fear of possible damage and of being alone,
dread at lifting the heavy boxes with my poor back
bombarded me.
Getting up off the mat after a final stretch,
I heat up dinner,
text friends
and open the office door to begin.
every morning I rise in darkness
fumble my way down the hall
trying to keep the house asleep
even with daylight saving time
every morning I rise in darkness
it has become my secret friend
we share a cup of tea
meditate, write, draw – our time
every morning I rise in dakrkess
[Prompt Seven: viator poem]