24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Sweat and insects.
Sticky and riddled with red bumps.
My skin is on fire.
The sun winks, the skeleton giggles.
Suddenly I stumble.
A damn root!
I fall flat on my face.
A stone archway looms in my vision.
Lush green trees beckon me with their limbs.
Fatigued and weak I tumble through the door.
Is this a mirage?
Fear not the future
Though it must surely hold your death
For it is the past that haunts us
Taunts us with the things we did not know
Deep in the forest was an arch way
the light that shone through was so bright
It felt like something new and refined
a look in side was desired
Oh the wonder my eyes saw
was nothing one could imagine
in their heart.
A glimmer of peace
so surreal, a pleasurable place to be
a lawn well kept,flowers in bloom,
trees laced the lawn gracefully like swans
I never knew there was so much treasure
hidden behind that arch way that
was so old and grim.
It’s the last match of the season
And I feel like I’m going to cry
It’s the last match of the season
I don’t want to say goodbye
It’s the last match of the season
What will I do in my spare time
It’s the last match of the season
And I can’t think of a rhyme
It’s the last match of the season
No more of Schweinsteiger, Özil, or Löw
It’s the last match of the season
To all this I say, “NOOO!!!”
I suppose it takes a lot more to inspire me
A black and white picture of a pic dog in a sweatshirt is close enough to being my spirit animal but mostly I’m a cat person and probably a crazy one
Just give me ten or so more years of living like this and I might snap sooner rather than later
My daughter liked the pic of the green blob of moss with googly eyes in someone’s hands but I really can’t get with that
Is that supposed to be joy or whimsy or nature I have no idea
I liked the idea of the googly eyes though because who doesn’t
And anyway the last picture in the prompt was nice and spiritual-esq but it was nature and I am the worst at nature
And maybe I’m not in a deep enough peaceful enough calm enough place to be all “ooooh a door and sun and a tree let’s mediate or reflect on the human condition!” Because my entire current human condition is more than enough to deal with
As I write this poem I’m playing candy land with my daughter in
My unmade bed
Coffee finally ready after a trip to trader joes for cream
My daughter just used eye shadow to paint my face into a clown or kitty cat or what looks like a 35 year old woman after a rough night at a bar and wow is that hard to wash off
So inspiration hmmmm
Sounds like one of those words that the more you say it or look at it or think about it
It loses it’s meaning
Like
spork spork spork
Or
bog bog bog
Though as a Nietzsche fan and part time nihilist
I suppose meaninglessness
is the ultimate inspiration
Take your hatred out on me,
pull the knife out of the dammed
and watch them bleed,
watch them plead for forgiveness,
the only thing that seems
to give any relevance,
so take your stance,
be the firs tin line to dine
on their fear.
While the crowd begins to cheer,
there is no forgiveness here,
everyone is but a dear,
with a knife being pulled out,
simply to be watched while they bleed,
as they start to plead for forgiveness,
no longer caring for relevance,
regretting the stance you once took,
we changed the chapters of this book,
for the tables have been turned
and this time it’s you getting burned.
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
clothed in dresses woven of grass,
and spun with web, embroidered with flowers
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
breathily sighing through the leaves,
its whispers gathered in tree hollows
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
many-eyed boulders scattered throughout
heavy lidded stones slowly blink and gaze
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
it’s lips the streams bouncing about
trickling with gossip from neighbors upstream
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
The forest alive; moss-skinned, bark boned
Oh Maera, virtuous hound…
So much more than just a dog,
You were Loyalty Incarnate.
How swift your tread when you found
The grave of Icarius,
Father of Erigone your mistress,
Where he was murdered and buried…
When she hung herself
Because of grief for her father
Your canine heart broke
And the tragedy became three-fold…
How vast your love
And how deep your grief
When you cast yourself
Off the cliff that day
And followed her soul
Into the afterlife…
The honor bestowed on you
Was bittersweet when you
Became Procyon in Canis Minor
And Erigone became
The Virgo constellation –
So close you were on Earth…
Yet so far apart among the stars…
How beautiful your shining –
For everyone to see –
How profound your sacrifice of Self –
Maera – the Dog Star…
© 2015 Antoinette LeRoux
Staple of the Cherokee, one of three
sisters, along with beans and squash.
Corn is all you need
for tacos, for liquor, for punch lines,
syrup and grits.
As corny as it gets,
you can’t keep it down on the farm.
Eat it in Paris, in Peoria, next week
in Kearney, Nebraska. Corn on the
cob, corn dog, muffin, chowder.
If you don’t watch out, corns on
your toes, from all those kernels
up your nose.