24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
balance
summer
organizing, relaxing, cleaning,
sounds
animals
mediating between two sides
fruit
rejuvenate
processing
*********
Seasons
circles, life cycles that keep the trees and plants
balancing through photosynthesis.
Birds come and go
listening to their calls as a sound effect
as we wake up
as we lay down.
By summer,plants blossom with delicious tasting fruits
that help rejuvenate us and other animals while coping
with the hot sun.
Is it not everyone who takes distant whispers and muffled giggles personally
The ones that are conversations away, but reach your mind through your perked ears.
Does not everyone self-consciously and arrogantly assume that their passing by sparks a side glance or a condescending chuckle from the ones who otherwise may have never crossed your path, and now you feel connected to them in a strong, unyielding, sometimes unwelcomed way…
Is it paranoid to rummage through every possible thought of what they may have said or thought about you? The clothes you’re wearing, the blemish on your face… Maybe your shirt is inside out or your makeup is horrendous or your receding-hairline is an embarrassment to anyone who sees.
Are the depths of insecurities not equally shared among us all?
Why is it that trying to write for five unforgiving minutes is the most effective way to clear one’s head of anything the reader might actually want to read?
When I try to write in stream of consciousness mode, I feel like I’m letting the reader into my head–and that my head is far too noisy a place to entertain guests;
Sit down right there and don’t mind the thundering train that passes by my mental window; which is my feeling of being overwhelmed at the mound of paper in my office that grows with the day;
Pay no attention to the plane flying overhead-that’s my worry about next week’s court appearance for the client who won’t pay their bill;
Earthquake? No, that’s just my stomach. Haven’t eaten yet. Too much to do;
So, how are you?
Why are you so quiet?
-30-
There’s some beauty
beneath the troves of pillows.
A sweet ocean of cotton,
marred by mass.
As we
rearrange furniture
as young people do.
Interior decorating
the best we can together.
I fancy such a tidy woman
as yourself
obviously.
It is about
accommodation
and agreeing on stuff.
After all the funny business is done.
I often feel.
I understand what it’s like
with a woman who means so much.
I’m stuck
I’m in a whirlwind of emotions
Weighing pros and cons
One person
Two hearts
Each beating differently
Equally as strong?
Or one stronger than the other?
One heart too full
about to burst
The other heart just full
It always has exactly enough
I’m stuck
I feel like I’m moving alone
It’s useless
I’m told I have to give one up
I’m the donor
Someone else needs a heart
Can I let go?
How do I survive without both?
I have to give one up
while it’s still strong
One will eventually grow weaker
and fail
I can only survive with one
I must choose
I must save myself
just write whatever comes out
any words that choose to gather and
find themselves on the page
that rhyme or irritate
that sound pretty or crass
that look good in between the lines
just write.
write for 5 minutes or 10 if you’d like
about mice or men
moats or flies
about rainbows and fairies
or toothpicks and hoes
just write.
don’t think that hard about syntax and prose
about rhythm or syllables at all
just write.
tell stories. tell lies.
be real or fake.
just create whatever you’d like.
and when this exercise in words is said and done
everything ends up
just perfectly right.
At the door step of death I stand there and wait.
My breath it escapes me I’m dying I know now my end fait.
My heart beat is fading fast my and my pulse is nearly extinct.
Now my eyes are dimming as these symptoms are all linked.
As I gasp my last breath everything’s shutting down.
My last thought is I’m glad I passed here in my old home town.
I was told by the fire mage,
Maniac messiah that I’m
Some internal arsonist
A relief to know that when the darkness surrounds me,
I
Have accelerant
I have a match and gasoline… This
Is poetry
Even in cobalt blackness,
I can write light
@ angel rosen
Dying to herself, withered in toil she lay.
Arms so unkept from years of fruitless waving, one dared to quiver.
Not as if it mattered, what’s been done, has been done.
For years, she danced around in a world of her own.
Seeing the unseen, occasionally drifting to one…..
Always just for fun.
Love couldn’t live here to long.
As soon as it came, even quicker it had gone.
It had always been acceptable to be the lover, just not the loved.
V.Sky
Plucking white hairs out of my already sparse eyebrows
Thank goodness for eyebrow pencil and shadow;
Eyelashes so pale
Look like a sheet of paper;
Out of concealer;
Scraping lipstick out with a brush;
Layer on Foundation;
Paint by numbers on my lids:
Nude palette of eyeshadow
Numbers 8, 3, 10, and 9
Corresponding to
Inner crease, crease, outer crease, bottom lashes
Sultry Angel? Try again
More like Aging Angel
Drowning in the fountain of youth;
Charcoal Eyeliner;
Miss Manga mascara,
Eyelash filler applied,
Tarantulas crawling from my eyes;
Blush highlights;
Makeup mist & set
Ready, Set, Mirror!
Not so bad,
Maybe not a Sultry Angel
But not bad.
Next . . . the hair!