24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The loaves weren’t perfect
like the ones on Instagram.
Smooth, even
twins of one another.
One had a bump
on the corner.
The other,
a little tilty.
flour
water
salt
oats
yeast
All came together
in ceremony
to create one.
Yet,
one is one.
The other,
other.
And nourish
just the same.
Life is a highway. Time is a river. Got the idea? Climb on!
Elephants can fly (somewhere)
We smell rain and something rotten in Denmark.
We touch a nerve and embrace the wind.
We see an ant and feel its bite.
We taste love when the season turns to spring.
I hear Beethoven and see the revolutions of wheels in his motifs.
Abraham loved to drive down to Ein Gedi.
And elephants can’t really fly anywhere.
But if they could, they would probably love to visit the Alta Plana Desert.
Not.
Everyone in the room hated the new Bond movie, so it must be bad.
“Say, who dat dar? Whar is you? Slap ma cat silly ef I didn’ hear sumf’n.”
The lacey shoulders of hope.
Fruit flies like a banana. Time flies like an arrow.
No way I’d ever tell my Mama, but I smoked a cigarette in her closet sitting under her pink satin dress when I was 10.
He called her “Katie-poo”, and she came running with a grin
The storm clouds will rise and blacken the skies in symbols only the devil can read.
Holy nonsense.
The sandstone shapes stand silently in the moody dusk, orange and brown like giant muffins waiting to dance.
Honi soit qui mal y pense
The stones shrugged, then lumbered to their feet and began a slow, sad waltz.
Hi all!
Welcome to another year, another burst of fun, poetic energy. I’m so excited.
I feel like it’s been so long since the last marathon but, at the same time, I feel as if I only blinked and it’s here again. In a way, it’s a sensation that’s both refreshing and draining.
I had to scroll way back to see which marathon number this is for me: 6 — two halves and four fulls. (I felt like such a baby back then, 2017!) This year I’m so excited to be doing the full marathon, as I couldn’t last year. And while this is the “crunch time” of my everyday life schedule, this event becomes the joy in all that chaos. It’s great to take a break and do something you love, even when you feel life piling up around you. It’s great to pretend.
This year’s a little different from the past. I lost some good people who were normally by my side during, but I have to keep reminding myself that I’ve gained some more. Albeit different, love is the same. Inherently.
We’ll see how this year goes — I have only the highest of hopes.
My fingers are ready to type, my brain is ready to out-pour, and my heart is anxious to love again.
Here’s to another great year of the writing festivities!
Blessings,
Katie <3 🙂
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
after GK Chesterton
“For Honour!” cries the foolish wretch
“I cannot compromise!”
The modern wise philosopher
Just shakes their head and sighs.
What use is honour to us now
Except for making waves?
Go with the flow, to stand one’s ground
Is no way to behave.
You’ll make the rest of us look bad
With your old-fashioned views.
You’ll have to change the way you feel
Or be declared a prude.
Oh, keep your stupid honour then;
But you and I are done!
For honour is a foolish thing —
I’m proud to say I’ve none.
“Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed”
— From the dedication poem for The Man Who was Thursday
Text prompt:
Nancy Anne Smith suggested this subject for a prompt we do every year. Your challenge is to write a poem about the topic of marriage, without ever using the word marriage, and while also ideally avoiding the words spouse, husband, and wife.
I just want to be your Priority
Call me your darling, call me your baby,
Shona, pet, or Habibi.
Soulmate even, maybe.
I just want to be your priority.
Violent wars on the telly
Politics and pollution in London and Delhi
Through the good, the bad and the smelly
I just want to be your priority.
Builders, gardeners, plumbers, all
Doctors, dentists, solicitors call
Taxes rise and pensions fall.
I just want to be your priority.
River cruises and weekend walks
Holiday food which tastes like chalk
without all our easy nonstop talks.
I just want to be your priority.
Endless cups of Darjeeling tea,
Trapped in timeless tranquillity.
Lives crystal clear yet dustymisty.
I just want to be your priority.
The prompt is not a gift nor a lift
Which it was and I would have floated a drift
If it were so, I would spread my wings and move like a fly
Kiss the moon and return to the Earth on a fly
The rabbit came cannot arrest the din
Nor was the giraffe tall enough
My legs could not see where my eyes had been
Pity, my tongue cannot taste the joy of reading
Daniel got the direction to his parent’s church on Church Street
For whatever it is worth
Aha, never possible to fly like a fly or kiss the moon
not with a long spoon
You do not have to survive
Life is not a 9 to five
Dundun dance at the funeral of a chief without legs
Not sure how but it did anyway
Loaf left in a bucket of water gets soaked
Like a fish out of water, dead
Omo, la ju e
It is a street talk to survival.
A walk in the night
when I can hear my loquacious feet
the innate awareness
of my consciousness and heart’s lone beat
I ask how far I should go
as I try to define an end
waiting for fatigue or a message
that my hopes and fears will send
The world has gone to bed
except the occasional flicker of light
the uncertainty of time
and the threat of dreams in flight
Before me, an open gate
and the deafening whir of birds
breaking from the scraggy grasses
and a misty dust that stirred
This was where I would turn
into this home of stale air
to walk past pedestals
of entombments silent blare
The bleakness and silence of the moon
shepherded me to doom
my heart in a thud of panic
a place of strangely attractive gloom
I was touching my death
and took a deep sigh
a stopped before a sepulcher
…my life began to cry
My wisdom was now a volunteer
providing me with the choice
to face the mighty heavens
or prolong my tottering voice
We breathe in
We breathe out
Lift our arms
But don’t twirl about.
Arms out
Nod our heads
Shouldn’t kids do this
Instead?
We lift our knees
We put them down
Slowly, slowly twist and turn
But we never feel the burn.
Nice and easy
That’s the plan
Then we stop
And breathe again.
The End
How will you see my life at the end
Will you see me as helpful and kind
As one on whom you knew you’d depend
Or someone erased from your mind
Will you think of me and remember some purpose
Some time that I helped you through Hell
Or will you recall some moment of weakness
I may not have handled that well
Will you stop to think of moments in sunshine
Or times when the storm clouds appeared
Will laughter and joy be a resounding headline
Or the thought of me bring you a tear
I know that I’ve tried to conquer each challenge
And bring my world closer to light
But I am a realist and know that great damage
Can breed if I wasn’t quite right
When you think of me, I hope it is fondly
But if not, I am sorry and sigh
For if there’s one thing I know that is certain
It is far too late at goodbye
For once at the end, there is no going backwards
No do-overs, fixes or mends
Yet, I remain hopeful my final day beckons
Remembered by all of my friends