24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
There have always been difficult times in
which humans must find a way to navigate the
choppy waters of despair while immersed in the middle
of some natural or human made disaster of
such enormity that one cannot hear beyond the noise
of hopelessness and gloom and
must confront the possibility of extinction while the turmoil
churns out few reasons to think the survival of I
is possible and which will carry
much weight amidst the deafening silence
I promise I will give you the moon on a stick
if you quit saying Jesus Christ, Fuck’s sake!
if your dirty clothes land in the hamper,
if you turn off cell phone at meals,
if you quit sleeping all day,
if you comb your hair,
if you get a job!
I promise to give myself the moon on a stick
if I quit my constant eating day in and out,
if I stop obsessing at 1 in the morning,
if I halt mooning around the house,
if I annul my habit of put downs,
if I give up consuming meat,
if I declutter the house.
lying in wait but someone’s lying to me in this house
cleaning and clearing, trying, and someone’s lying
tired and tired
i’m not in understanding but I’m listening
trying not to be prying
A Prescription For Poetry
A twenty minute interlude
To just sit and read,
Poems for the broken hearted, the sick and ill,
Those just plain broken.
Old and new, well-read and unknown,
Long, short and those in-between.
There is a poem here for everyone.
These are the doctor’s orders,
Take one poem. Two, three, four.
Take these words and rebuild
Yourself, letter by letter,
Rhyme by rhyme.
As something shifts in your heart,
To let the poem speak
For itself,
And open a door.
Dawning Wishes
The sunlight peeks through the clearing
Of the trees that align with the road
The morning ahead, at last, nearing
With all of its greatness bestowed
The hopes and the dreams of tomorrow
Now present to start on their way
For time is a moment we borrow
At the start of every new day
The dawn is but a soft mixture
A blending of darkness and light
The dim giving way to the tincture
Of yellows and oranges and white
And in all those colors, a promise
An effort to give life one’s all
For the dawning renews with such purpose
That one must forge on with its call
Each journey in life, a beginning
A dawning of each day anew
A balance of losing and winning
Made wholly and uniquely you
And now, here you are at the dawning
The light smiling down through the trees
Will today be your day to slay demons
Or carry on with incredible ease
Whistle while you work.
But I can’t whistle.
My tongue won’t bend
my lips won’t purse.
Melodies, bird-like trills,
like summer showers,
never
flow.
My jaw is tight,
my tongue is curled,
and my lips exhausted.
I am done
and you, my son,
just keep on whistling
and laughing at me.
Hello?
Are you there?
Do you know what happened?
Do you blame me?
Is it nice where you’ve gone?
Were the others there to greet you?
Is the snowfall still peaceful, and the night jeweled with stars?
Can you still hear the symphony in the evening crickets and the morning birds?
Are the blankets warm, and the food delicious?
Are you happy?
Do you ever go back to the home we shared?
Do you ever wonder where we went?
Do the doors stay open for you?
Can you still hear me?
Is that you in the shadow of my sight?
Are you still causing mischief?
Are you lonely?
Does your waking ache with grief, too?
Are you waiting for me?
Can you send me a sign?
Will you be there for me when it’s my turn?
(Hour 3)
Hour 3: Missing the Veranda
We still buy coffee from the green siren
that bears the same name – but we live
in a completely different place with an
entirely new environment – we have a porch
but less of a view. We have time, but not
as often as we once did. We have artistry
flowing through not only our veins but
the world around us too. There are actual
hummingbirds that appreciate our yard –
they bring me reminders of all the people
who dared to leave and they keep the
flowers in bloom – don’t ask me how
but they do. Maybe it’s magic. And I am
alive here. Even if it doesn’t quite feel l
ike home. I’m missing the veranda again
.-M. Rene’
Cold, invisible fingers wrap around my bare arms.
I try to blink away the inky veil in front of me.
I feel a warmth crawl down my leg and onto the rocky ground beneath me.
I try to move as an agonizing scream ushers forth from my lungs
And then silence as it wafts up toward the daylight peering in from above.
My surroundings press in around me.
The reality crushes me as I force my mind awake from unconsciousness.
He pushed me and he has left me.
The man I love has abandoned me to a cruel end.
A romantic hike during my dream vacation and it was all a lie.
He fooled me and I allowed it.
And now I will die for my stupidity.
He wanted to explore somewhere no one else had been.
He talked me into following him deep into the forest.
No one comes this way. No one will find me.
A vise restricts my throat as a sob pushes through.
I want to live. I am alive and I want to live.
Hopelessness washes over me as my heart pounds in my ears.
I see the sun through the trees at the opening to the pit above me.
Life continues unaware that I am helpless.
I can do nothing to save myself; all is lost.
As my eyes adjust to the blackness, I can see the blood pouring from my wounds.
My leg lays at an unnatural angle and the pain radiates through my entire body.
I take a breath and wish it all away, but it remains unchanged.
I am growing tired now; my life leaks from me and pools in the dirt.
The ground laps it up greedily.
I cannot stop it. I am helpless.
I no longer fight against the weight of my eyelids and let them close.
I slump back against the wall of the pit.
I breathe out and let the pit swallow me.
-Diana Kristine
Hour 3
Woman in a Circle (photo by Frank Ching)
Chanced upon the
empty chair meant for her.
Hesitantly stepped inside the first circle.
Then, the next…then, the next…then, the next…
through the hashed lines of the inner sphere.
Her resting place.
Safe and comfortable.
Vacation.
Haven.
Womb.
So, this is what it felt like.
Sue Storts
09/02/2023