24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The sunlight plays on the waves overhead
and reaches me in fractured rays.
It is a warm light,
in this cold, dark place.
It is a welcoming light,
in this frightening, foreboding place.
It is a waning light
as I sink deeper, further from it’s hope.
The sun’s rays no longer reach me
As I drift among the rays of the ocean floor.
I am scared.
I am new here.
Not every “Good Morning” is met with a smile.
To be honest, most are met with a stare,
but the ones that break across sleepy teenage faces
are more valuable than,
a trunk of pirate booty found under the “X” on a map to Treasure Island;
the ‘High Five’ for the winning goal in the championship game;
one’s gentle first kiss from a long held crush under soft moonlight;
or even, the promotion and raise after years of hard work,
because it shows they know I care.
You’re a puppet
In your own hand
That you forgot
You have
You’re a puppet
Of an invisible puppeteer
That you forgot
You are
You’re a puppet
No one moves
How you are moved
Is a total mystery
It’s clear though
That you twitch
So much so
That you fall
You fall all the time
So much that one day
You forgot one of your eyes
And became famous
As the First one eyed
Voodoo puppet
That no one
Wants to pet
Your power for a puppet
Is beyond all considerations
Of sanity through alienations
Your power is under threat
You dance around the fire
You spirit puppet you
When they all sleep
You clear up their blue
You are their best friend
But they don’t like you
As you dance around the fire
To purify all their blue
You’re a puppet
In your own hand
That you forgot
You have
You’re a puppet
Of an invisible puppeteer
That you forgot
You are
Things were going just fine
cordial, cold, robotic, no acrimony
When I broke the calm
by asking the entirely wrong question.
Fighting renewed, airplanes overhead
Daily barrage of AK47 rapid fire
in the electronic street of emails
Your aggressive Stalin to my calmer Churchill.
Collateral damage is inevitable;
children crying with limbs blown off
mentally and emotionally wounded psyches
triggering PTSD tears.
I renewed the truce
withdrew my request
ended the battle
fearful the damage is irreparable.
—————————-
(I took a graduate poetry writing class at Morehead State University. The professor would assign simple prompts which we would develop into 20 apertures. This poem was inspired by the prompt “I hope …” which was my apertures “I hope that people who hate me now will moderate to apathy soon enough”.
“Be honest,” she said, as I’m pulled into the night,
Feeling at odds with the soft moonlight.
“Tell them the truth; we have nothing to hide.
We’re just kids. Nothing happened. Nobody died.”
We had heaved ourselves up to the mountainous heights
In the dreadinous zones, nature’s deathly death bites
We slipped through, unannounced, we four foreign bodies
Ecstatic, relieved, thanking whichever its god is.
The sky aglow, deep red, softest touch
I, at one with the earth, (and, perhaps, being Dutch)
Threw my clothes to the ground with such joy and delight
And the others’ skin warming in the soft growing light.
It’s after hours now, and the cold pulls me back.
Bent over, head covered, my body is slack.
I hear flashes of light and alien chattering
I’m rough-tumbled to a car, cold, feel the rain spattering.
I can cause earthquakes; I spite the divine.
I state my name when I’m next in the line.
Her once child-like face is heavy and wan.
I take hold of her hand as we’re moved along.
Saying “Good Morning”
Is not always cool…
To be honest, the saying
Can make one feel like a fool…
Before the Age of Technology
We stayed home after hours
And community gatherings
Were humanity’s power…
“Good Morning” was only
Used when it was true
But lately it is said even
When the greeted one feels blue…
Not everyone feels well
Every second of each day-
Try to think before you speak
And know just when you can say
Those two little words:
“Good Morning”
© 2015 Antoinette LeRoux
Moonlight whispers through a soft rain
The after hours garden rests
No rush
Roots slowly pushing
Silent buds stretching, soft and sure
Treasure glistens every leaf
Breathless beauty
Moonlight.
Moonlight.Soft moonlight.
Soft moon’s light.
After hours
Industrial parks,
Forlorn streets
Of lost towns,
And the coal-harsh
shores of sharp,
Melt down into
The blues and mauves
Of treasure island groves.