24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am not boastful or overly proud.
I am not big city or high fashion.
I am not Dooney & Bourke or Prada.
I am not pedicure, manicure, or Brazilian wax.
I am not BMW, Mercedes, or Escalade.
I am honest and sufficiently proud.
I am small town and prosaic.
I am Wal-Mart, Target, and blue light specials.
I am plain label and Sunday coupons.
I am a $12 purse with BOGO shoes.
I am fuel efficient and low maintenance.
Filling up a mayonaise jar
Is not the jar
To fill in a bar
A simple meal
Reminds me of early days
Uncomplicated mornings
Simple as oats
Pour, mix, stir, and wait
Nothing else
Straightforward meal
Simple as oats
Here I am preparing oatmeal
My mother’s breakfast
Unsophisticated woman
Simple as oats
I miss her so much
Every lone day
Mixed emotion feelings
Simple as oats
Images of Heaven
Images of Love
(Sonnet 2015 @ 3:10 p.m.)
Don’t mock him, even if
He’s funny, he can do things
You will never be able to
He laughs to your misfortune
He slaps you in the face
When you cry for nothing
No it’s not totally that
He never was violent
Never beyond your agreement
You know the agreement
You signed up before
Of course you forgot
Now it’s time to remember
Time to open this little corner
In your scary head
Don’t be afraid of him either
He is here to help you
Take some steps on your path
On your way to the glade
Don’t miss him,
He looks like a joke
He will show up unexpectedly
He looks like a stalker
Don’t run away
He smells fishy
His souls is rancid
And he holds the world’s grudges
But he will meet you with
His big mocking smile
And those huge horns on his head
When you see the fish behind him
And never before, only then,
Tell him you come from me
He will give you the secret code
Directly in your DNA
You will notice nothing
But you will feel an urge
To hug everybody, that’s
The sign of your brand new loyalty
You will never see him again
But you will remember
His filthiness forever
Don’t forget ever the power of the fish
I knew Lucy since she was yay little
A demon in human form she’d always been
With her crafty smiles and
her thoughts frothing with trickery
Our family never took much heed of Lucy’s many mischiefs
Caught up in their own business, they let her be
She repressed her subconscious need for attention
By making strange friends
Goths and misfits, hanging out in shady, underground clubs
Listening to their dark music, sung in guttural undertones
Her outlook pessimistic, her lifestyle stank of nihilism
Our folks took notice when Lucy’s grades started falling
(Of course I could plainly see her downward spiral
But nobody paid any attention to my snide remarks)
The cut her allowance, her car privileges were withdrawn
Lucy rebelled by turning to chemicals
Her friends too were on the same path
to the mire of apathy and self-destruction
So no help there
Last week they found Lucy
Lying in the canal behind the factories
The neighbors and the police swarmed into our house
When tragedy strikes, people are drawn to the carnage
Like carrion flies to a corpse
Apparently, Lucy had overdosed
Her ‘friends’ had dumped her body
in the chemical-infested puddles behind the factory
To confuse the cops
She was 15
I miss her terribly
I knew her since she was a kid
She was family
But, being a cat
There’s only so much I could do
She loved this place
Dark damp secluded
One entrance one exit no escape
The alley behind the blood bank
Heavy with intoxicating scents of her favorite hot red human nectar
Quiet and cool away from the crowd
Away from clipboards and questions and bright lights hurting her eyes
piercing her translucent skin
For the perfect price and promise of passion, they always followed
melting into her welcoming arms and darkness
Willing to give, willing to feed
her aching hunger
Soft moans from dark shadows
A whimper, a hush and a trance to forget.
Gathering firewood is one of them. I don’t wish
I knew how to do it. It shouldn’t be hard to do
but one should shape things just so that there
would be something to gather – firewood, fireflies,
or fame, salt-and-pepper sets, sewing thimbles,
something for an evening of tea with invented friends.
What does the phrase ‘gathering gloom’ mean?
Do the clouds get together and decide to darken?
Does this mean it’s time for humans and other
creatures to huddle in a circle and chant?
Is it then time to kick off one’s shoes and beat the
ground with feet? I don’t know how to do that either.
(c) Ella Wagemakers, 21.13 Dutch time (= 15.13 EST in the US)
What more do you seek?
There’s sun and hope for you.
Go, find your own path!
a haiku by Nancy Ann Smith
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
The water smells of rubber soles.
Downstream they know
And hide.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
A strange insect
Of feathered wings
Lands, then jumps.
There it is again!
Perhaps a swarm
Of feathered food!
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Stupid insects!
How they dance
With rhythmic respect.
Here we go!
Dance, oh thou
Feathered wings aglow.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Gotcha!
Echos from the wiggling space.
Sharp.
Pain.
Pulls.
Tastes of unfamiliar ions
And birds.
Gills filled with air,
I am caught.
Beware the fisherman, they said in school.
Beware the fisherman who makes a fool
Of even the wisest of trout.
He fishes down at the water’s edge.
We know him, they said.
They told me so.
You know him by the fins he wears
Nothing in the water bears
Such stench or undertow.
They block the flow,
You know.
I scream and fight
And warn my hundred brothers
Hundred others
Who survived the journey here.
Beware the fisher…
They do not hear.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Plop.
Swish.
Kxsh.
Yellow hues
Fluttering about
Controlled by her motion
She is her skirt’s muse
As she skips in the rain
Causing a beautiful commotion