No Hope – Hour 24, Prompt 24
End is near, I hope
without a rope, I say nope
blank mind, sleep, elope.
– Sandra Johnson, 9-3-2023
The place I am truly myself
“Closets are a big deal inside a house, but also metaphorically. One can be in the closet, or come out of it, for example, But they are also places of safety and joy for small children, or where a monster is lurking, depending on the small child, and/or time of day.”
The place where I am most truly myself-
where I sing loud, not caring if I miss the notes and tones
The place no one hears me or looks upon me with ‘judgy’ eyes
The place where I think I can win an Oscar for my notes,
The place where I look in the mirror to practice my speeches
The place where I applaud myself for my braveness.
The place I reveal my initial fears and start to overcome them,
The place where I start to nurture the thought of letting the world see my amazing colours
The place I gain confidence before letting this inner child out to the cruel world.
As a child I was scared of the dark.
As an adult, I found myself always seeking the quietness it came with.
As a child I thought monsters were hidden in the corners waiting for me to step in at night
As an adult, I see that the monsters live outside, waiting to shred every bit of me
This is my haven
This is the place I am most truly myself. I’d rather be here than anywhere
I’d rather glow in the darkness of its safety that reveal myself to the light in the world
I’d rather fill this place with my colours till I’m ready to show the world
One
after
the
other.
Hope is a Hard Subject
Hope is a hard subject to write for
in a world where there are no guarantees.
Hope is like a wish you want granted
there are no guarantees.
Hope is like a blanket
warm the elders and the sick
still no guarantees.
Hope is like a promise
it can be broken
like tomorrow’s no guarantee.
Poem for Hour Twenty-Four (24/24)
The day is done,
And we pass each other, like
So many birds trading schedules in the dark.
Hope plays upon our crests and roosts in our chests,
As we continue our lives in concentric circles from each other.
Owls nestle now their heads and red-winged blackbirds stir,
Dancing past hollow trees to congregate to meet another day.
As long as there is song in the air,
The still of calm will have foothold over us.
As long as bird breath comes out loud and strong into brightening air,
It means humanity gets one more day to try again,
And do it better.
“The New World”
No religion, no country, no territorial boundary,
This world can be a place like no other.
No rule parts to play,
No currencies, no need for a job.
We are not humans here,
We are like an orbiting species taking its role as it is.
Part of nature, equal to all the species yet to live.
What else can we give?
To a world who has it all?
God moves in mystery, they say.
But there’s no Gods here,
There’s no one for us to pray,
We all are preys,
Rotating towards who’s the next to eat,
And what would be our meal.
No police to keep it in order,
There isn’t any border.
This is our home,
The sky is the limit.
A kindred spirit bustling around,
And where we left to die
Will be our holy ground.
Text Prompt
Write a poem about a world that is not this one.
#POETRYMARATHON2023 #HOUR23 #24HRSCATEGORY
Hope (Poem 24)
A tree cut
A flower plucked
A seed sown
New life blooming soon
What goes
Comes back in some form or the other
Life goes on
World moves ahead
Nothing stop the flow of time
There’s only hope
That keeps us strong
Stones
Slip sliding over the texture
my fingers dive into
a pile of river smooth stones
shivers running through me
as their surface soothes me
no sharp edges to disturb
my sensitive nerves
closing my eyes
I feel calm
HR-11 The Path
Your journey is full of detours
Some bring unbelievable joy
Others bring unrelenting pain
Everyone’s journey is their own
No one has control over your journey
You make choices along the way
Sometimes fate decides your journey
Rachnoc Haiku 24 Hour 24
Sea weed man, guilty,
Slimes across the deck and hauls upright,
To do the right thing.
The tentacles wrap,
Tightly about the boat, Grown,
Squeeze writhing rapture.
He flops and plummets,
Ecosystem returning,
To the singing bed.
Rachnoc withdraws, pulse,
Follows his father beneath,
As the sailor weeps.