24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Part IV
Over the top – flamboyant,
is how many artists are caught to fight the front lines,
for me,
I was standing too close to the edge of the bunker,
the dirt gave way and I fell inside,
alone and screaming for my comrades to come
rescue me…
they couldn’t hear my voiceless cries,
I couldn’t hear my voiceless cries…
– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 11:00 am
Its so great to see the beautiful Beaches
Lay in the sun
Feel the gentle breeze blowing
Enjoy the sand and sea
Just to know we have it all
Is a wonderful blessing to me.
Don’t be an imposter in your own life!
Stand in your power
Speak your truth
Break up with Fear, Anger and Worry
You are way too good for them
Hang out with Love, Wisdom and truth
Much more fun to be had
Open your heart
tear down the walls!
Explore the love unconditional
Start with yourself first and foremost
The rest will take care of itself
And watch it spread far and wide
Distance is no boundary
For intentions originating from the heart
Are far reaching and have no concept of time or distance
Be the best that you can be
Start out small and before you know it
The momentum is in full swing!
Make peace with yourself for we are all
A work in progress
Every little bit helps to move us
Along the way to being the best
that we can be
Pick 5 of these 8 words and use them in your next poem.
Piano
Ferns
Lantern
Beech
Boots
Laughter
Jars
Clear
the death of a woman I will never know
is ticking inside me waiting to catch fire
an incendiary device of the historical kind
my mother curled into herself shadowed
my father dribbling gruel onto his chin
this is my palimpsest the charcoal bleeding
onto this paper the way my mother’s past
bled into the air around her smoke
the way my father’s magic powers unraveled
a tangle of tarnished medals in a drawer
so I call my demons to heel with bravado
spinning before them like a tamer of the wild
although my demons were never so graceful
so beautiful never so easily subdued
no. my demons wear familiar shapes
my mother curled into herself
my father watching nothing
while I write incantations on water
Part III
When I grew too old to crawl behind the
red vinyl couch,
and we moved from my beloved Indiana home,
to a state where everyone spoke slowly and with a drawl,
I restlessly searched a new place to hide;
I secured a imaginary shovel
and began to dig;
my first goal was to dig to China –
fall through the sky and land among red Chinese lanterns;
after about fifteen minutes of digging,
I decided there had to be another way.
my mind took me back to age ten,
when I was sick for days and I lost my hearing,
my mother refused to take me to the doctor,
and I suffered, lying on the red vinyl couch,
my grandmother desperately trying to help me,
I emerged several days later,
my world silent,
and so it would be for several months…
Memories of deafness still make me feel some anger;
it never should have happened,
the 1970s had modern medicines – antibiotics,
my mother never came to touch my brow,
or ask how I was feeling –
I just rested on the red vinyl couch and moaned in agony,
for days and days and days and days…
– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 10:50 am
Is history re-written?
Buy booze but not new boots.
Liquid creativity, she claims.
Her choices are a map indicating her true north.
Is her compass cracked or perhaps she is geographically-challenged?
She awaits the half summer light.
Swallows more white lightning, but holds Time in a bottle.
Maybe she’ll buy new sandals.
Or booze and go barefoot. It’ll be summer, after all.
She reads others’ work and makes a new resolution.
Positive space is sometimes as important as its counterpart.
The next page opens to sand on a beach.
To what and to whom does one say no?
****
Caryolyn Forche’s poem Elegy (from the book angel of History), “The page opens to snow on a field: boot holed month, black hour/ the bottle in your coat half vodka half winter light./ To what and to whom does one say yes?”
A lot can be said about this.
It’s something we all dread.
From the cardboard sandwiches aboard
To the dry pasta threads.
Or maybe it was a muffin.
Some cookies? Some nuts?
They were all kind of stale, right?
Bleh. Ew. Yuck.
But this time, I avoided that fate.
I did not succumb.
I brought my own snacks,
And there are no meals to be had
None.
It had to be fate because somehow in that storm of unpleasant sounds and smells we found each other.
We were face to face, eye to eye, assessing each other.
I thought No, he looks too much like the dog I grew up with and I don’t want a re-run; I want a new edition
And he just looked at me.
My son squatted down to his level and squealed He’s perfect!
So we took him home – after paying $50, being grilled to determine our suitability as prospective dog owners and after filling out more forms than I had to fill out at at the hospital after I had each of my children.
I thought Maybe more children would be happier if we screened parents the way the dog pound screens adopting pet owners.
The name on his cage at the pound was Handsome, so that’s what we called him. Handsome, indeed.
He was a Miniature Poodle – Bichon Frise mix. That’s what it said on the card.
I was grateful that we aren’t always labeled by our ancestry. Irish – English mix. That’s what mine would say.
Then I realized that some people are labeled by their ancestry because of the color of their skin, and I was a little ashamed. Ashamed of a thought unspoken.
We took Handsome home.
He broke out of the house and ran away on the very first day. I don’t know if this is going to work out, I told myself.
I felt frantic as I searched, knowing I had to find him, even though others heard me mutter things like Damn dog, I knew this was a mistake.
We found him two days later, rescued by a neighbor.
I was relieved, joyful. He jumped into my arms and licked my face. I kissed him and whispered into his ear Don’t you ever leave me again.
He never did.
The months rolled by, then a year.
His new adoptee behavior wore off and his own personality emerged.
Protective, loving, stubborn, smart.
He learned his own name and a few cute little tricks, but his own strong will persisted.
He showed us who was boss by pooping in the living room (regularly) or barking at one of the kids.
But no matter what, every time I came home, he’d jump into my arms and wiggle with joy
He’d snuggle next to me while I slept
Lick the tears from my cheek when I cried
Run to me when I called his name (and even my kids never did that)
Seem to listen to me when I needed to talk, even if he wasn’t (a trick my husband has yet to learn).
In the day to day moments of home life, he became a member of the family, an ever-present quiet (usually), loving (almost always) companion.
He’s perfect.
Sometimes I wonder how life would have been different if I had walked by him at the pound to the hyper little chihuahua in the next cage or the gorgeous Australian Shepherd across the aisle.
Sometimes I wonder Who owned him before he was found wandering in the country and taken to the dog pound?
Do they have any idea what they missed? Of course not.
It’s probably their fault that he poops he in the living room.
It can’t be his. Or mine.