24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
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!
When I learn other languages it takes time for the words to rise along my throat and tongue the way I want them to, lined up like children in a museum holding hands, or like dogs along an obstacle course jumping, leaping, point A-to-B-ing for the prize. There is a small art to the success of pronunciation. The tongue and throat and teeth and nose and cheeks and even the fingers and the eyebrows and the way you pull back your hair or arch your back and flex your shoulders as you step up to the podium in your mind all affect the delivery, not only in tone but in the access you have to the most basic sounds. If you stand wrong some sounds are cut off completely and you have to readjust your posture. Sometimes you need to go to a chiropractor and have them put their fingers in your back to unleash an a, a u, a gh, a Welsh ll, an Irish string of consonants with no direct English equivalent, the waterfall of a Finnish verb, sharp Russian rs, the French glottal, the Spanish everything, the Swahili you speak with your head raised high. Be mindful of the clothes you wear, the jewelry you choose, the way you sit down to write. The kind of breakfast you had. The air you breathe, what smells you are used to and the smells you are not familiar with. The way you interpret a dog’s bark. The light. The air conditioning. What is on television. Learn about the world around you and observe, because when you learn a new language, you lose track of who you are and what you might become. It puts your body in danger and scrambles your memory. The act of learning a language is an axe. The act of learning a language is a sledgehammer to the brick wall of the self. The act of learning a language divides you.
HOUR NINE
POEM # 9
24 HOUR
POEM
MARATHON
TWO JIVE TURKEYS
Two jive turkeys,
Herky and Jerky.
Wanted some smack,
They had the jack!
No smack lit up a weed,
You need some feed.
Man you are square,
I am, at least I care.
Smack makes us high,
Get some, watch us fly!
Soon were out of sight,
Later got into a fight.
Now sitting in jail,
Bed, blanket and pail!
Still no smack or weed,
They have some feed!
Written by Carl Mann
The kurlman
6-13-2015
When Irma Juanta was about 4 or 5,
Or was it 3 or 4?
What year was that again?
The year that she was born?
Oh yeah, that’s right, borrow the 1,
Replace the 3,
then subtract 9…
…which brings us to the age of…
wait…that cant be right…
…hmm…oh well, it doesn’t matter, we’ll say she was ten,
that’s fine (if I’m a few years off, I’m quite sure she won’t mind)
Anyway, where was I?
Ah yes! Dear, sweet, little Irma,
(who went by I. Juanta, by the way)
always wished she could own everything,
just because the T.V. said.
And if say, the tele-tube was to show, i dunno… a blue sled,
And even though there was no defect or flaw with the one she already had, (it was red)
She would take it, break it, and would stash the pieces beneath her bed.
And then dare her mother not buy her a blue one!
If a rare display of parental nerve, a simple “No,” had she said
You’d better hide the wire hangers, Joan Crawford!
I. Juanta would emit a wail so loud,
And with a shrillness that could raise the dead
So loud that you’d need an Advil, even though you live on the other side of town
Meanwhile, since we’re on the other side of town
I’ll introduce to you another tiny child,
Her name was Anita, and the poor girl’s family was quite wild.
…And when I say wild, I really don’t mean to sound vile-
It’s just…well, it’s nothing offensive at all, really, for the fact Anita is a crocodile.
Just in case that fact there, happened to make-a you smile,
I regret to inform you that, surely, the end-part will…
…make-a you cry-le.
(Don’t judge me for having to make up a word, No, not today, no Sir.
Not when applause is deserved, to reward my ability to stylize such beauty
from an idea this absurd)
Poor, poor Anita was little, and some might say she was itty-bitty,
So all her classmates at school called her Wee Nita…
Which brought down her self-esteem and generally just made her feel plain sh*tty.
And to make matters worse, Even for being so very small,
In spite of all the makeup and fake hair she wore,
She wasn’t pretty, not even a blind person would hit on, not pretty at all.
So there’s Wee Nita, right in the swamp, right? Living in filth with nothing nice or fancy;
Existing on only the things she requires.
Then there’s I. Juanta, right? And she’s spoiled rotten, and gets everything she desires.
By the way, in case you were wondering,
Which one of these two heroines, history most admires?
Well, see what had happened was just this let’s just say this:
Well I heard, that I. Juanta met Wee Nita…
…and an altercation transpired.
I hate to say it, but KeKe said that from the looks of things
Although in size comparison, To Wee Nita,
I. Wanta. Stood like a tower
But it was necessity that moved Wee Nita,
And I. Wanta became the wanted
I. Wanta got devoured.
Living half a century
Allows me to perceive
The beauty of my life
The test of growing up
The relief to obtain a degree
The pleasure to travel the world
The excitement of getting married
The miracle of being a happy mother
The delight of having an artistic daughter
The blessings of a talented son studying abroad
The honor to serve my church and the community
The acceptance to realize what I have and don’t have
The challenge to publish my memoir in a foreign language
The desire to finish my Bilingual Children Book Collection
The pleasure to publish my first Bilingual Poetry Book
The chance to be me and the energy to live one more day…
Thank you Lord!
(Free Verse 2015@ 5:20 p.m.)
She’s a pyre of prettiness;
burned by her own excess.
Suppression-caused
combustion colours her cheeks.
He is quiet quality;
a solid sort of human,
who dresses his sadness like death
and hides happiness in plain view.
We walk a line.
Sometimes it feels like a straight line.
Sometimes it feels like we’re walking in circles.
Retracing steps, going backwards,
searching for the right signs,
we walk a line.
We take it slow, we try to run,
but there is no jumping forward,
no skipping steps,
thought we might sleep through a few,
if we’re not ready.
There is a clear beginning
and a clear end.
First – not by choice,
second – unavoidable either way.
But what if, the line we walk
is really a circle,
and death is not the end,
but a new beginning?
Lonely, old shoe
in the alley,
where did you come from?
Are you all alone in this world?
Where is your match?
Is the other of you lost, too?
Did your owner leave you behind?
For what reason?
Were you too small?
Too big?
Too broken?
Or just in the way?
Or are you meticulously placed here?
Was your owner in trouble?
Did she have to fling you off to escape an offender, or officer?
Were you left behind on a trail
for someone to find your owner,
like Cinderella tale?
Were you ripped off of your owner by a dog?
Were you flung off in a heat of passion,
never to be found again?
Or was your owner pretending you were hidden treasure,
that was lost track of in the midst of play?
Whenever you came from,
I bid to leave you where you lie.
Perhaps your owner will return,
and you will have a reunited cry.
Lonely, old shoe in the alley,
all my current best I am sending.
Lonely, old shoe in the alley,
I wish you a Happy Ending.