24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
HOUR EIGHT
POEM # 8
24 HOUR
POEM
MARATHON
LIFE
Earth motionless in place,
Traveling quietly in space.
Through the corridor of stars,
Find no doors, gates or bars.
The Sun controls the light,
The Moon reflects the night.
The ocean tides move in, out.
Winds whirling sound shout.
Seasons growth divided by four.
Life on this Earth rich not poor.
Written by Carl Mann
The kurlman
6-13-2015
Politicians drone on about what we need
with smiling popularity contest behaviour.
We must vote for them, they convincingly plead,
we need their leader to be our saviour.
What we need isn’t a dapper smooth talker.
Maybe he wears t-shirts and sports a goatee.
We need a leader who fights for our corner
and treats us all with respect and dignity.
Who we need won’t charge us for water
or dish out contracts without a care
crushing our protests with the hounds of the law,
further swelling the coffers of one billionaire.
Who we need won’t accept business predation,
won’t accept banks charging for being poor,
will put nothing ahead of his population.
No such politician ever knocked on my door.
To those in power a little reminder.
You should remember, ‘cos we won’t forget.
What we need really is a saviour,
and what we need, we haven’t found yet!
I sometimes search love online,
but the wind whispers that it’s wrong,
that I should keep looking in the real life.
Maybe I should get even more real!
I would like to have more friends,
I would like to see more smiles.
Who wouldn’t want this?
It’s more pleasant to squander time with someone.
Although it seems that you lose some hours,
you gain so much-experience, positive emotions.
You build confidence, you become more tolerant.
Who said that social experience was not important?
The lightening bug glows
Brightest against the darkness.
Wise lightening bug. Wise.
Judy Klemos
I am the Lady Bartholomew!
Not some poet’s muse!
How dare he write of me
In lust! Yet gracefully…
That he doth dare to think
I may, in some dark corner,
Spread my blessed wings,
Or entreat his push of things.
“Long and thick,” the maidens say
Chattering I dare not hear.
How dare he come so close, so near!
His scent entices me, like woods and sweat.
His voice, rustic and deep, witnesses the thrill
He simply shall not know. Not now. Not Ever!
My husband would not care for
My curiosity of this theatrical bard.
Is he really, truly as hard
As they say?
If I may, for a moment,
Lie in wait here, nearest his gate
As I prune these roses
For the dinner plate.
I shall not look too long
At what lies beneath his kilt
When I bend to fetch the fallen blossom.
Perhaps I shall trip, and land
Gracefully upon my back
Here in the grass, where none shall see.
But him, and me.
In the shade of the abbey.
He comes!
And I dare not look.
I am his Lady Bartholomew.
The sky is blue today, the grass is green
The clouds are white, the blood is red and brown
The sun does shine upon a foul attack
Is death what waits at sunrise, sunsets too?
The knife and bullet spray on peaceful days.
The sky is grey today, the mud is think
The rain pours down, and love is born today.
The storms do rage against the two adults
Can love be made in hopeless times like these?
The gentle gaze, embrace, and sheltered heart.
We need a deep well and a clay pot.
We need a furrowed brow and wet feet.
We need the marble polished smoothe, veined with black.
We need the oil lamps shining toward the east.
We need mosquito nets, green grass, and shade trees.
We need a temple of cold rain to wash India into eternity.
What I really want to write about is bonfires.
The kind you build on the beach, water a stone’s throw away.
I’ll pretend it has a life of its own. Perhaps it does, who knows.
It’ll remind me, gently, of what I don’t know. By looking
deeply drunk into its flames, I might come to the conclusion
that the moths were right – the fire is all there is, that life
is all about warmth and only about warmth, that the flight to
the light is the only way to go. Maybe that is why we
light candles for our dead. We like to think they have gone
but a little way down the road and will surely return.
(c) Ella Wagemakers, 22.45 Dutch time (= 16.45 EST in the US)
An Image I Will Soon Forget
Dugong shaped cloud, tail dispersing
in evening trail, devouring the stumps
of Holiday Hills down its lavender smoke guzzle.
Floating swimmingly, satin skin curled in cumulus.
Like air clay molded and dismantled, carelessly shattered,
the way children’s play-doh crumbles,
immersed in a carpet of sky irregularly vacuumed.
Not even remotely alive anymore, pixelated cloud shard
carried by May current.
Maybe a crawdad, or simple a soup stirred
and waiting to be scooped, slurped up.
Evidently, in the car while passing,
I was a shrimp to the dugong, unnoticed.
I blink as the eyelids of a camera would,
and I am no longer in view, my crustacean
tires scurrying down Three Mile.
A lovely flower of spring
Unconventional beauty
Radiant and sprightly
Characters enduring.
Bright and warm smile she possesses
Heart so pure and caring
She has no color defined
Just natural and refined.
The big thing about her is no secret
She opens her heart to all who want to peek
Welcoming them without hesitation
But staying depends on ones action.
As lovely and fiery as spring
She is a friend in all seasons
No matter how bad the weather
She won’t leave you withered.
Like a spring that brought life.
She will always share her sunshine
A playful and magical character
She is a friend always not just in spring.