24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
(another untitled for Candyce)
She is foundation
A time traveler
A “gotcha” wrapped in an “I told you so” wrapped in “WTF”
She ain’t the least bit funny
And she’s fucking hilarious
She is the solution when
you didn’t know there was a problem
She is the assignment understood
Ella es tarde con agave
She is doing the most with never enough
Hi. I’m never enough…
But she said she’ll keep me
A precious as I keep her
I hope you understand
That I am allowed to do what is best for me sometimes
It is not all about what I can give
What is expected
What good manners dictate
Or what I have done in the past
The older I get
Just occasionally
I need to put me first
So I have the strength to carry on
Belly rubs before all else
Food prepared then we roam
A morning skip on dewy grass
Relief a romp return to home
This soft warm roommate
Has little choice to share
As morning news brightens
That dark corner there
My many barks may sound good
As I look into her eyes
She twists and turns a furry head
Curiously wondering why
Just like this for weeks and years
We never speak of it ending
As the thought brings tears
Reminding each our time is pending
Coffee and Conversations with Whitman
Me: Mr. Whitman, what gave you the idea to start writing poetry?
Walt Whitman: My strong ties to people and the environment.
Me: Can you describe the underlying principles of “Leaves of Grass”?
Walt Whitman: It honours the beauty of life and how individuals are related to one another.
Me: What served as the inspiration for “Song of Myself”?
Walt Whitman: Introspection and the idea that people are universal.
Me: As a poet, you have left a huge legacy. Any words of wisdom for aspiring poets?
Walt Whitman advised staying loyal to oneself, writing from the heart, and accepting the complexities of life.
Me: I appreciate your ageless wisdom, Mr. Whitman.
Image Courtesy of Pixabay
Pizza began in Italy
Then moved to the rest of the world
Today, we all know PIZZA
Antoinette LeRoux © 2023
We stand at the world’s edge,
looking out over a sea that
constantly bickers with itself.
Still, I touch your hand.
Fingers interlace with mine and
our love creates a bubble of hope
big enough for us to stand upright,
shoulders back, heads held high,
stare down despair and say, “Get
the hell outta here!”
a hope
of my son’s return
burnt grasses
Possibility a haiku
It is entirely
possible, says my friend, that
everything will be ok.
I used to love getting hiccups
I liked the rhythmic push-and-pull in the chest
but now can’t stand being jerked about
Just another of the many things that have lost their joy as I’ve grown
(Hour 24)
Racism?
Sexism?
Classism?
Elitism?
Heterosexism?
Colorism?
Tokenism?
Ableism?
Ageism?
Elitism?
If so, why?
If not, Stay that way