24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Life.
Living.
Awake.
Asleep.
In Bed.
In my Head…I did almost oversleep.
Just in the nick of time, I awoke. Some inner stirring prompting me. Dont miss out on this. Dont miss out on you. Dont miss out on life.
Live.
Be Awake.
Dont fall back Asleep.
Still in Bed…but I didnt oversleep.
I am here.
Little sparkles of gold
Will increase a thousandfold
Over the hills and the dales and the tracks in the ground
Over the trees and the rocks and the roads not yet found
Where the high meets the low meets the new meets the old
That is where they’ll sparkle
In a world of black and white,
she was the color.
By not her vivid beauty,
yet by the smile, through her suffer.
Poised in her position,
authentic in her vision.
Never altered by her ego,
faithful to all her words written.
Smiling
She wakes up at the crack of dawn to say
Hello
To the trees and the shining sun
And when she is done
You see a brand new person
Drinking her coffee
Lighting her cig
Keeping up with paces of
New faces
Because “Strangers are potential friends”
So if you see her
Smile and wave
She’s a beautiful person
Even she can’t escape that
~.%
The wood is damp this morning,
No tinder waiting to devour everything
In flame, with the touch of a match.
But I don’t mind,
For the sun is coming out.
I took a sip and let it go
the time have come for me to know
What lies in the core of my heart
the thing which binds me from falling apart
There were still many mountains to climb
but sometimes I felt a little blind
Then I hear a special voice
It comes out breaking all the noise
The time has come to know the dance
I will learn to take a chance…
Cold air
Burns my throat
Sends my body reeling
Recoil
Pulling inward, running away
My lungs are frozen
The scream is suspended
In my chest
Even in my worst moment
I can’t let go
Control is all I know
Always
Morning
Morning has broken,
Not the first
And not the last,
As we sleepwalk through routine.
Bleary-eyed we stumble,
Somehow weave past each other
As if still in dreams
Not yet destroyed by shrill alarms.
Cold tile starts to seep through us
As we prepare for the daylight hours,
Breaking through the fog
Of half-asleep minds.
Eventually we emerge,
Hot tea and dry toast
Break a self-imposed fast,
As we finally acknowledge a new day.
Blackbird sings,
And morning dawns,
Buses screech, and children laugh,
And today is here.
Morning has broken.
School, rustling knees about the parquet floor,
Scabs and mud and the rub of patent shoes.
Togetherness- all gathered as one before the time we begun to question the world.
The headmaster, with Welsh melodic tones, takes to the podium,
like others I’ve seen, in church.
A place I only frequent for weddings and christenings- no funerals yet.
He rests his foot on the wooden plinth and rocks, cradling the bookrest as he speaks.
He is ardent about his theme, an ardour I’ll remember all the days of my life.
Singing: all together. Loud: not sure if anyone can hear me- not sure
If it is my own voice or the multitudes of others.
I did not grow to be a Christian, but what I feel when I hear that piano intro
Must be at least akin to those of a believer
Standing anew every morning beneath the stained-glass window.
Part 1
She was 4 when she became aware of carnage, devastation and brutality;
she came in through the breezeway,
the red brick linoleum was sticky,
her grandmother was standing over the freshly cut sweet corn
singing “Sweet Adeline” ,
the girl crossed from the threshold of the kitchen into the dining room,
reality stings like acid –
her mother was towered viciously over her two year old sister,
cursing, slapping – the girl pulled on her mother’s arm, “STOP!”,
the mother turned with her hand raised to begin wailing on another victim,
the little girl tensed up, getting ready –
the mother hesitated – the little sister crawled away,
in a moment of clarity, the mother stomped off, cursing…
the girl went to her crying sister, red whelps over her tender skin,
“are you ok?”
the younger sister kicked the girl in the gut –
her way of saying, “I’m fine, leave me to lick my wounds;”
in those moments the poet was born,
the girl suddenly became aware of wishing not being born,
and her bunker was created behind the red vinyl couch,
still on the front lines,
still vulnerable to the brutal sounds of war.
– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 8:20 AM part 1 of 24