24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am Grief
I am grief, forever grieving
Desolate, unwanted, but of course, mischieving
Born to Fate and misery
My job is vocationally dreary
I will grow and cause uproar
I will let your fears upsoar
But I am not entirely to blame
You give me all my fame
I am making a lovely writer’s getaway
On the back lanai
There are palm trees and green grass
And our broken Christmas Amaryllis
Lost to the wind
I pull out the big brown vinyl chairs
Using a towel to clean them
The towel turns dirt red
It’s been awhile
The bougainvillea greet me
They dance in deep purple and
cheery red, and dainty orange
I clean off a spot for a computer and notebook
I smell the fresh morning air
Just a hint of ocean, flora
Plumeria and papaya
This will be amazing.
I finish my task
Excited
I recheck everything,
repositioning chairs
wiping a missed spot
the true beauty around me takes my breath away
I cannot understand why I
stay inside
A large carpenter bee appears
Dive bombs at me
I duck and weave
He buzzes my ear
Hissing a warning
Reminds he has friends
Lots of them
I slither inside
Writer’s getaway abandoned
I hope the bee enjoys his retreat.
time is money or so they say
so i stay on the grind…..becoming….
9 shows a week where i get to shine
make-up and wardrobe-
hustle then flow-
blocking, then lights-
tech rehearsals all go!
stay on the grind….becoming-
one show to the next
i do what i love-
fly through scripts-
rehearse out loud makes people wonder if you’ve lost your mind-
always becoming…..
peering into the depths of every character’s mind-
step onto the stage and make the audience mine-
always becoming…..
and whoever I am it always becomes me.
Not a good morning was this one –
Just to be honest.
A late night at my treasure island of a job
Had me staring through miles of brake lights
In the soft moonlight of
After hours freeway construction.
And then…
And then!
After filling two tanks,
Both mine and the car’s,
Three hours later,
Yes, THREE, two in the
Soft moonlight of construction,
Nearly home, within minutes, of my front door,
Driving through a welcome mist
Called rain here in the drought,
Flashing lights.
Caution cones.
Police cars in the soft mist of hallelujah
Water from the sky!
No moonlight.
DUI checkpoint ahead.
No one’s dead.
Hallelujah!
“Good morning, Ma’am.”
Oh, yea…. I did leave the office at ten.
It’s nearly one in the moonless misty morning.
“Any alcohol tonight?”
By now, don’t I wish!
Slowed by providence another ten minutes,
To ensure a triple commute.
Thou shalt not save time
Playing hooky
Just to clean the house!
Teens at the curb
Wear smirking smiles
Of mischief
Waiting for Daddy
In pajamas.
Could have been worse.
I’m home!
The left hand only
For handling contraband
And anything unholy,
If you please –
It just keeps me at ease:
Sinistro,
Sinister,
Visitor,
Prisoner.
The right is for right-doing:
Things that save me from ruin:
Not for wiping the ejaculate from the mirror,
Not for stabbing myself with the scissors,
Certainly not for squeezing the life out of someone until they wither,
The right hand is not the hand of a killer.
Not for seventy percent of them who would have recommended
That for those responsible for a series of lives being ended,
Left is most definitely the best – they’ve put it to the test:
Sinistro,
Sinister,
Visitor,
Prisoner.
(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15
We called it Joe Pond
for the neighbor who owned it.
Never laid eyes on him
but his pond was full of bass,
carp, and catfish big as Siamese.
I have photos of three generations –
mama, little brother, his little girl –
each perched on the edge of nowhere,
disappearing, thrown back into the universe.
they see me, and yet; I am invisible
to be pulled, stretched, and used
like a worn but beautiful canvas
each new day, the same ritual
tucked, painted, squeezed,
but that is the way.
I am to serve, and to hold court.
I push my spirit and hide it deep within
so it cannot see
what lies before me,
but that is the way.
I repeat the rituals day after day
in preparation,
because that is the way.
Before each night falls, I ready myself.
I wash, I dress, and I shuffle into the night
because that is the way.
By: KMH 2015
What would happen if you died and I did not hear of it?
Nothing.
I did not even hear if you had gone on living.
Outside, the poppies are nodding their heads in agreement.
They are docile creatures.
That is easy – they know the seeds they came from.
Inside, we will have rice on the table. Always rice.
Even when we go out, I do my best
to order rice. It was rice that fed our togetherness.
Now, we are joined by nothing, not even our names.
In the beginning, it was hard
to live without a name. Now, my name is of my own making.
Today, I have been thinking of you. Not in an unkind way
but almost as a total stranger
would shake the hand of another at the end of a war.
(c) Ella Wagemakers, 19.30 Dutch time (= 13.33 EST in the US)
Write a persona poem. (Elitist)
—————————————————————————————————————–
I see you there,
hustling and bustling—up and down
this busy street, pressing in on peoples
lives with your scummy rags and watery
Windex. NO! I don’t want my windows
washed by those hands. This Mercedes
deserves the gentle touch of machine
controlled brushes. I don’t care that your
children are here to help too, I don’t want
anything to do with you. Do you think I get
out of work and care to have my time imposed
upon by some poor folk? It’s not my fault
you didn’t go to college. You should
have tried harder, woman. No I don’t want
a bouquet of roses, throw them on your
grave and drop dead.