Hour 24: The Finish Line
Crack of dawn has come.
Sunshine peeping through the trees.
‘Tis the end, for now.
Coming Home hour 23
Coming Home (haiku)
round the bend could be
anything, or nothing at all,
the cash draw – empty.
Hour 23 – A World Away
A World Away
The soldiers rally on, working to defeat the intruders.
After a late night invasion, the attack is doubled.
The forces surround the invaders, like skin covering a sphere
The captured are conquered, divided, dismembered
They are sent out to do the bidding of King Acid.
In the world in my stomach, battles fire up, then cool.
A Cherita poem
Taking Care of Me
Brush my teeth as water warms.
A towel and a cloth.
My body ready
for its crystalline energy.
Shampoo, then condition.
A foaming gel of roses
meets my skin,
washing every inch in luxury.
Towel off, then moisturize
the face, the arms, the legs
the feet, especially.
Feet so ignored in the past.
Brush in the mousse
with hair still wet,
and wash my hands
of its stickiness.
Conceal the dark
around my eyes.
Chanel, my preferred
five minutes of cosmetics.
Then brush and blow
my hair just so.
Get dressed!
I’m ready to go.
The Restaurant of Poetry
Hour Twenty-Three
My brain is pudding
a casserole of deliberation
charbroiled musings
a culinary art.
A souffle of hapless meanderings
sticking to the bottom of
the deadpan stare of a sleep-deprived wordsmith.
I take the spatula of resolve
and chisel away at metaphors-
with eyes glazed over
the sweetness of sentiments
and the salty brine of experience.
My verse becomes gelatinous gravy
smothering the carefully prepared meal
in a swarthy succulent and savory condiment
a condemnation of palate.
My humor presented upon
a poo poo platter
of nonsensical imagery…
but in all my serious kneading
of the dough, baked, and left to cool
upon the fresh morning air-
I find I mourn the loss of words
as my audience takes bite-sized portions of me
in exchange for the full meal.
Solitude
Elegant lady,
I respect and appreciate you.
To be under your mantle is for the brave.
The idea of solitude is obsolete,
one person represents many categories
and almost never
have you as an advisor.
In this time of information and speed, everything is a reason for unity and celebration.
Hardly anyone is removed from these facts anymore
and therefore hardly anyone has the courage to stand alone.
Many ideas have been accepted
in the name of not accepting the true facts.
Almost no one is alone,
and if that is the case,
that is a case of bravery
that should be
documented day by day.
The Canary Still Writes Poetry
cw: none
This story is a metaphor:
the canary speaks to me.
Through its eyes, I told you
a story of never fitting in:
a story of expectations,
and failures,
and all the ripping out of the heart.
And though this is a metaphor,
I promise you:
it is all truth.
It all happened –
in its own way. Its own time.
The canary still
writes poetry
(it will never stop)
Hour15
Do you want to fight evil together?
Do you want to be my wings?
Do you want to be my super hero?
Then, take my hand and make me smile!
Tomorrow
B U M M E R
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M M
M M
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R U M M E B