24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hunter
Who could find serenity in hunt?
Is voilence not affront?
Yet the hunter is in a peaceful balance
Between nature and its absence
You may bloody the forest floor
You may be draped in fur and more
You may stand in silence amidst whispering ripples
And a rod in hand, a bait at the end of a hook and slightly tipple
You may be a humble fisherman
You will be a hunter as long as you can
What do you say to a man who lacks
the makings of the sea?
“Old man, leave me be. Salao, you.
Haven’t caught a fish in… what, 84 days?
I am young, strong, sturdy. You don’t deserve me.
I will climb a boat that smells of morning fish.
You pull a line to break it. You’re useless, old man.”
But what if I am you, old man? What if
I become salao and that big fat marlin
prances around my boat and that big fat
marlin prances around my boat until my
left hand gives in until my left hand…
I love you, old man. And now you’ve
made me cry. I promise you that we will
fish together until either of us dies. I need you,
old man. I’m practicing self-actualization.
Until that time this is to be the story
of the old man and the sea.
i remember going fishing with you
of all the childhood things that I’ve retained-
how you would bait my hook
knowing i would never actually touch a worm
and even though you would growl and bark about most other things
you did that without word or sigh-
then hand me the pole and help me cast it off.
I would wait with baited breath
and though no conversation was ever exchanged
(at least that I can recall)-
there was something just between us that I’ve always held dear.
You would talk to other adults that were near
giving your expertise on any subject
and i would listen-half hearing, half not-
waiting simply for the pole to bend
to show the sign of something caught.
I’d wait for the rush, for the look in your eyes
just for those moments-
though i never ever said it out loud nor under breath-
i was proud that you were my dad.
I pull one out, she pulls out two.
Our favorite man baits our hooks and grins.
I pull out one. She pulls out two.
A picture, smiling softly…drawstring hood surrounds her wrinkles as she poses heavy with fish. My fish are yellow, and they scream.
Who knew fish could cry like me?
(I miss them…)
The princess is upset
She can’t stand wearing
Any single day more
She can’t stand wearing
This too heavy dress
Weighed by 12 generations’
Dramas and wars
A fairy comes to her
Announcing the great news
Of her pregnancy
In the fabric of her own dress
There is the most precious gift
A true jewel
A wonderful and shiny treasure
Not just one, but so many
She could never count all of them
She’s upset because she doesn’t know yet
That this day is the best of her life
Ever
She doesn’t know yet that
She will have just to dance in the garden
In the middle of the embalmed flowering trees
She’s upset and doesn’t smile
When she sees the musicians coming
But in a few minutes the music
Will enjoy the sunny garden
And make home in the sky
“ what was in the fabric of your dress, my dear daughter? “
The bait is hooked on
The line is swung
with a gentle flip
out into the river.
Now we wait
and dream
and reminisce
and smile.
Happy, forlorn, grateful.
Early morning
I sit at the table
Groggy and hungover
from last night’s debauchery
My saintly roommate comes in
He screams “Good Morning!”
His words bounce around in my head
Painfully
I can barely look at him
The daylight blinds my sore eyes
“So, how was last night?” he enquires
I mumble, “The usual, we went around town,
drank at half a dozen places, who cares…”
My friend, a stranger to vices, looks at me
With merry wonder in his eyes, he asks —
“If you’re so miserable, why do you drink? I don’t get it.”
I look at him, the uninitiated simpleton
How would he even begin to understand
The sweet, relentless grip of temptations that call after hours
The soft moonlight’s spell, which brings out the Mr. Hyde in you
The bittersweet irony of living multiple lives
No, I decide, I wouldn’t be able to tell him
That it’s a lie vampyres can’t stand daylight
Whispering poetry to myself in the bath
I ponder my day and choke on a laugh
at all of the silly little things that you said;
how God is alive,
and that sky is red
and nightmares so troublesome fall from my head.
With momma up to mischief
and daddy on the couch
I tiptoe to my room
quiet as a mouse.
Moonlight dances on the ruddy wood floors.
There’s holes in the rooftop and locks on the doors.
I turn off my light and
draw the shade down the window.
Turn down the blankets and
fluff up my pillow.
I pray to the Lord my tired soul to keep
and wish that tonight I’ll fall easily asleep.
I drink myself to a tumultuous nap
to awake in a place where the sun rises black.
The boat sways with the water,
fisherman sways against the wind,
wipes sweat away from brow,
pulls another net in.
The fish gasp in oxygen –
thrash in agony –
fisherman sighs against the rising sun.
This heat is unbearable.
This oxygen is unbearable.
Market day – stalls filled with dead fish –
eyes wide open, mouths wide open –
as if taking in the last breath of toxic air
in a desperate attempt to survive.
The smell of fish is overpowering –
people pour in from all corners – eyes alert.
Fisherman watches on,
wipes sweat away from brows –
this heat is unbearable.