24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Blissful state of dreaming.
Sleeping wake
under northern star.
Pale, cold flesh.
Tiny shivers.
When death whispers your name;
this sacred rite,
will hold the answer.
Tear apart the chambers,
cut out
blood from bones.
Bathe in sunlight.
Wish upon a star.
You’ve seen me without my face,
Without my lipstick and my mistakes,
Blemish rests upon these bones,
Wearing nothingness:
I relish upon my throne.
You accept my get-up,
But would much rather do without it,
Experiencing my shield,
The one of foundation and powder.
Clear judgment exudes through,
What would I do without them?
Without you?
I could not stand the sight of my own face,
Without wearing my shield,
I could not amount to the myriad of beauty I desired.
You are my make-up,
Your words I wear upon my skin,
Your truth complements the beauty within.
How you treasure the way my eyes gleam:
No shadow to hide them from the sun,
How my lips pout candidly like candied caramel apple slices:
Wearing nothing for fun.
You love the way I look,
You love me natural and nude.
To whom can I be compared: “No one.” You soothe.
I fall prey to your elixir,
This potion: your sweet speech,
Compliments: cunning, leaving me in complacency.
Ultimately leave me feeling un-kissed of your approval until tomorrow’s morn,
Seeing something out of place upon my face: wearing my favorite shade of scorn.
There’s something I feel you see,
Something I kvetch over endlessly,
Embarrassed to show me,
But, bare is what you want me to be.
Three days running
This thermostat has reported
Its maximum temperature.
And though the skylights admit
A pearly grey luminescence
Hinting at rainclouds,
I can feel the humid breath of summer
Rising outside the circle of the fan
In vaporous rings,
A giantess smoking.
I remember one midnight mass years ago.
A quaint old church some miles away.
Lantern in hand, our boots crunched in the wet grass.
Our laughter ringing clear in the empty country field.
And thereafter, as beech firewood burnt in the fireplace,
We toasted each other, and promised friendship forever.
Memories still waft through time’s mist.
I smile in my recollection.
The Piano At The Station By The Beach
I looked one day
And there it was.
A colourful, striped piano.
A Punch and Judy themed instrument,
Clear centre of the station.
I laughed, and looked again.
The piano was standing still,
A red and yellow beacon,
Announcing to the crowd; here I am,
A lantern shinning full.
Donated by the local council,
A sign proudly proclaimed.
For all the people to stop
And play
Or listen, on their way.
Towards the city centre,
Or straight down to the beach,
With music in their ears
And songs to guide their feet.
This piano at the station by the beach.
Liberties taken with changing beech to beach and laughter to laughed!
Beauty is sumptuous riders of uncertainty
Truth is no certainty, you under the lantern of reality
War is not irrefutable, givers of reason
You wonder why be reasonable, in oceans of treason?
Fights are necessary, dreamers of amnesty
Yet blessed with reason peaceful, do not receive cruelty
Peace is the courage, priests of satisfactions
Are as they as satisfying, holy transactions?
Fear is ever worshipped, guardians of the faithful
Dare not play with faith since it is job of the fearful
Words are for meanings clear, listeners of perception
Though it has been perceived their laughter has reception
Forgiveness is so vast, regiment of mercy
For each merciless soul demanding decree
where ferns now grow, in once cherished grounds
and jars and jars of muffled sounds
Truth is merely a decision, collectors of wisdom solemn
Between truth and notional apprehension common
And they say, beauty is sumptuous, riders of uncertainty
For happiness maybe peace in misery.
to think without language
would be to perceive
a reality
unwrapped of fabrications,
the true of things
the image
if we forget to talk
we forget every page we’ve read
in the “how-to” for liars
language creates monsters
who write themselves out of
their monster bodies
with things that look like poems
but are really just another way
of pretending
let us be mute and deaf
make us immobile
the truth would
no longer be
slant
__ar.
(“slant” is emily dickinson reference.)
These games,
They strain my brain.
Deciphering same
Will drive me insane.
Who shall I blame
For all this pain?
Or should I refrain
From naming a name?
It’s too much strain,
To play that game.
Hour 4 – 9:00 AM
I’ve been a menace in my dreams.
I’ve heard the child’s loudest screams.
We take a vote one more time.
And slide on through to the other side.
Unrecognized in this frame of mind.
Where we’ve swallowed our demons,
and held on to our pride.
I’m elated to tell you I’ve found the truth.
Buried beneath all this money there’s the root.
The cause, it’s unconditional, it’s bearings are mute.
Disguised a society covered in soot,
barebacked, & left with no loot.
– J.C. ©
Hi, Anxiety. I knew you’d show.
But maybe this time you just want to say,
“Bon voyage,” and wish me well.
For you know that this time,
You are not making the trip with me.