24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
We at the Studio Yo
Cleaning up from the show Yo
Film was rolling
We were rolling
Calls were showing
That we were blowing up
In traffic jams
A star lit scams
The highway to a better life
The sun is burn
My skin is Hurt
The time for California is now…
Talk your words
of beauty
and pain
and suffering,
depression,
life and love,
death and decay
for I will listen.
I will be yours.
Your strength,
your weakness,
the fire that lights
the oil of potential
in your soul.
I am Water,
life giving and taking,
resistance and flow.
I am dichotomy.
I shall help you
in your journeys.
Come to me my delicious dark magic brew!
My heart races, my senses awaken to your swirling aromas;
reminiscent of late night corner lounges
Van Gogh’s Parisian street scenes
As I lift you to my eager lips, I sense your power.
The steaming heat of the ceramic vessel temporarily housing your essence;
calms my shaking hands.
I drain you dry and beg for more
You are my nighttime companion
The key to inspiration and conversation
You have fueled the poet, the writer, the artist
I am forever in your debt.
No burns,
no foul.
Pain isn’t
a cutoff
it is
a lesson
of
another err,
of Experience’s
mentorship
though the
gnarled figure
before me
is too bent
near genderless
to age.
More so tree
than human,
the rootpiece
he leans upon
resembling
an extension
of his timeworn
Self.
He is training
me for his seat,
his eyes are bright
with laughter and love
which sometimes
confuses
me.
As the harsh bite of wind
chills me,
I find the
crisp cold air
hard to breathe
and it is unpleasant.
He chides
in his customary
singsong manner
of speech:
I should not feel
the cold
I should not feel
the
wind,
I say first,
but one should always look,
he responds.
He chuckles,
clearing the air.
He goes no further,
stopping to admire
the snow
that slowly kills us
forming on a branch
listening to the patter
of softly falling needles
arranged in patterns
from the apex.
I can see vague shapes,
dueling creatures,
skittering along the upper
branches
playing or fighting
I can’t tell
and, ultimately,
it doesn’t matter.
He looks at me,
as if studying
my thoughts,
I know,
young one,
very well
your state
of mind,
so similar to mine
when I stood
where you stand,
so long ago-
don’t laugh,
even I was
a child
on the cusp
of imagination’s
magnificence
at one time.
I was young.
he looked wistfully
at a passing cloud
and smiled.
I was taught
to appreciate
the beauty,
he only says
this once.
Hour 14 – 7:00 PM
Desperado sang through my lungs.
A desperate melody is what we hum.
Shy shadows develop a friendly conversation.
A tune, a song. Something to hang on.
A four part harmony to get things hung.
Light sway with a walk towards the door.
Walk in an 8 step count, then back once more.
I’m Tango dancing with my shadow and the midnight floor.
– J.C. ©
My smile
wilts roses
death in my arms
and eyes
unremarkable
the page
accepts
unwanted emotion
the night
claims darkness
the day
claims the wish
for darkness
twilight, the moon
dawn, the sun
the stars blink
calling for vengeance
of ancestral
misgivings
Or they would,
if they were.
stone me
before I
hatch
or you will
all burn
in the fray.
Take me to higher ground
Deliver me from Obsessions
Compulsions
Misdemeaners and Defeat
Deliver me from long lonely nights
From undercurrents of drama
Repressions Confusions
Disclaimers and Deceipt
Take me to higher ground
Pull me from self doubt
Intensions Confrontations
Manipulators Indiscreet
Home is no longer a feeling
it is my bed
and people who tell me they love me
without me forming a sentence that
bears to question them for it
my name isn’t whispered
it’s the theme of parties
who knew that their hugs
would be homecoming
I am less excited for praise
than I am for the rest that comes
thereafter
sleeping with an empty conscience
makes for less headaches
__ar.
(Addictions poem. from the perspective of the recovered addict)