24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
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.
Image prompt:
Your house is like a witch’s cave,
Which trust me, my friend, is just not okay,
My aunt found one, so I know it’s true,
She said it looked like gutter clutter and smelled of woodshop glue.
Still she strode in, not her brightest decision,
(If you have any question, you can go ask my cousin,
Who knows Auntie Sal plays a bit off key,
just hear her pound the piano or taste her fire ant tea)
She had just laid her hand on a knobby old broom,
To feel the silk of the wood, I assume,
When out from the kitchen came a terrible sound,
A clanging and banging and bark of a hound,
“Lord ‘a mercy, dost that belong to you?”
Came the billowy voice that sounded quite blue,
Not the deep indigo of depression, I think,
More bright like the Gatorade I like to drink,
Which tastes icy cold, even when not from the fridge,
Which must be part of the flavor’s sweet rizz…
So screeched the voice which scared my poor aunt
Who in all desperation began a small rant,
“How can you live in a house so unkempt!
Or find anything in one or any attempt?
What you need is a maid or someone to clean-
You can’t possibly have guests in a cave so obscene!”
And, yes, my dear Calla, I put this to you,
Because sadly, at least from my point of view,
Your rooms resemble an abandoned old alley,
Where no one in their right mind would dally,
If you don’t do something to change your ways,
You will likely end up in a cluttery craze,
With rats in your sheets and bugs in your ears,
A fate to be listed up high in your fears—
For what of the witch who, not heeding my aunt,
Threw out the old women and sang a weird taunt:
“Of all those who think they know best,
Trespasser’s at least should give it a rest,
Because they don’t know who might curse their own chairs.”
With that the witch cackled and turned to the stairs.
And what sat on the step 3 feet from the top?
But a sorry balloon that had already popped.
And now you can see how this sad tale will end:
A witch in a heep on the floor with no friend.
Silence hugs the room
as she waits for words to fill the empty page.
People around the world are doing the same
in their homes.
We are not giving up.
We are going strong.
Snacks piled next to us.
Drinks at the ready.
Typing fills her ears.
She is like coffee being poured into a cup.
Warmth consumes her as words appear.
I lay on grandma’s cowries that almost looked like a bed
But it’s actually Mama in form of roses and lilies
What do we call an abyss with life in it
The beed on my wrist signifies the swerling time I had run on
And the hurricane that it made on my body
She’s got a heart of gold
She also thinks pieces of rainbows fall from the sky on sunny days
Her touch is a cotton sheet, her sight a floating swan, she hears as a smile sharing joy, tastes as one hungering for truth and smells as a flower
She sees the colour blue and the shape of her lifelong love when music grazes her ears
Her poise is as Athena in ancient Greece
Her heart is streaked not golden
The skies are grey, where has this darkness come from?
How cheeky she can be!
She says each time she frowns a drop of rain falls from above
And when it does, these words are her refrain, ‘Ca va bien!’
A whispering mouth speaks of bravery
She stares at the vertical horizon
As her feet are lifted and she soars as a bird
Shea, her confidante, she knew her gifts were beyond the given
There will be a time others will see, she will share her sense of knowing
Like a flattened cloud no longer floating
And they’ll declare, ‘I love how strawberries float in the sky!’
Quietly she will say,’Je suis enfin a ma place!’
She makes the mountains hum
And the blue appears to open only for her
She is not lonely.
She’s protected.
Your town along the Clark Fork River
overflows with homeless tents,
cluttering the bucolic landscape
at a similar ratio to Los Angeles
or San Francisco: cardboard scraps,
ripped tarpaulins, discarded REI tents
resuscitated from dumpsters
and repurposed into homes.
I remember your extended
vagabond stint in 1980s Madison—
sleeping on heated parking ramps
in the depths of a Wisconsin winter,
disguising your tattered backpack
as a tree stump, then stashing it
in the woods behind the Memorial Union,
while students drank two-dollar pitchers of Point
and complained about their classes.
Now, you and your embittered wife
live in a spacious house downtown.
You probably complain about the mess
as you drive your minivans to Safeway,
but I wouldn’t know about it,
since you no longer speak to me.
I was good enough when you had nothing,
but comfort renders me useless.
I hope I creep into your dreams
with offers of food, sex, and clothing,
and you’re forced to remember
your days of poverty, but
I am sure your sleep is empty,
and you have forgotten everything.
trapped in my fingerprints, the traces are
not left on lines, rather, the smell of salt
buried in palms leaves a footprint of memories–
–and hope.
the air of whimpers serenades my life;
weight of memories in my head massages my
crossed leg. Modupe once asked if I could cross the roads in
Lagos without being led. maybe I should have told him
that the traces of lines on my palm lead me home.
my mother used to ask me why I took pride in tattooing my body with ink. I guess
my body is a piece of paper. was it?
sometimes, the levitical in my brother’s lyrics
unwraps balls of wasted passions and time
meant to be thrown back in time as childhood pasts.
and everytime I try to sleep, the moon won’t shine-
there are a lot of secrets in the dark of my sleep- so I wouldn’t see the paths.
so I leave a circle in my thumb to warn me to never
leave the boundaries as if “inyankanyan” means death. but still
I’m tensed; my stiff back won’t rest on the hard chair of comfort.
for now,
my fingerprints spreads over the missing disc.
Dark, tiny, confined,
Barely able to reach out in front of me.
I look up to see a pinpoint of light and have hope.
Looking for a way out, I push forward.
Wall.
I run my fingers along the floor and feel a rock.
I place my foot on it as the air starts to thicken.
I clench onto a jagged stone and pull myself up, praying it does not give way.
I breathe a sigh of relief for it is strong, and I take one more step up.
I feel around again, this time finding a crevice.
I hold my breath as I place my hand inside.
Exhaling, I take another step up, relieved the crevice was not otherwise occupied.
The weight of my body becoming heavier over the next few maneuvers,
I start to feel weak.
I want to give up,
Let go and fall back to the bottom.
I take another breath.
WAIT!
It’s different…
The air isn’t as thick.
I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them –
I can start to make out the bricks on the wall…
My strength comes back, and I begin climbing faster.
Every so often, my foot slips.
I stop, discouraged and afraid.
I look up and see the pinpoint light has now become the size of a basketball.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Slow down!
It’s not a race, I remind myself.
I open my eyes and continue on.
The darkness is fading away, and I can breathe easier.
Are those voices I hear?
Are they calling my name?
No.
Just silence.
Feeling alone again,
I want to give up.
I start to cry, ready to let go.
What’s the point?
There’s no end to this.
But then…
The light becomes blinding,
The air, pure.
Suddenly, I feel hands grabbing, pulling.
Frightened, I scream and start to fight back.
My eyes adjust to the new light, and I stop fighting.
I am wrapped safely in the arms of my family and friends,
My loved ones who helped save me from the darkness.