24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am not here, I do not sit noiselessly
And contemplate life
Surrounded by rounded walls
I do not live in this modern house
Or in a cabin in the woods.
I am not in the homeless shelter
I am not the vagabond under the bridge.
I live in my head
That six inches of real estate
Between my ears, in the fat and protein
Inside my head.
Inside my reality
where I tell myself who I am
and what I can
or cannot be.
Have you ever said yes
when you really meant no?
Did you ever agree to take part
when you really didn’t have the time?
Did you want to say no,
but you were too afraid to offend?
Well, being loved by all won’t be your fate.
No one will be concerned about your priorities,
or what you need to do.
The emphasis is on I, me and my
with no concern for you.
What they think and how they feel
is a worthy concern to have..
However, even if you comply
with all expectations,
it may satisfy in the moment;
but may lead to self deprecation
without regard to you.
When the next demand is made.
setting your priorities aside
Your needs settle down to the bottom of the wish list
for burial in an early grave.
No one will cry or even mourn
when your work is left undone.
You’ll blame yourself for saying yes
even when it caused you harm.
Yes is always pleasant
it makes one feel so good,
but sometimes no can mean just as much
when plain reality is understood.
No is not a bad word,
No doesn’t mean I don’t like you;
it doesn’t mean I don’t care.
It simply means I have a life
and my life has to take priority over you.
PIGEONS ARE TERRIBLE NEST BUILDERS!
We domesticated them,
Housed them,
And now,
Their best attempts at building consist of two twigs on a roof shingle.
PIGEONS ARE TOO FRIENDLY FOR THEIR OWN GOOD!
They, like us, frequent cafes,
Ordering pastries,
Asking for nibbles,
Sitting daintily on our hands even though we are strangers.
PIGEONS BREED YEAR ROUND!
They live dangerously,
Along noisy streets,
Crowded intersections,
And still find time and peace enough to bring life into the world.
PIGEONS FALL FROM BUILDINGS WITHOUT THEIR WINGS OPEN!
Because even now,
After all this time,
They are still birds,
And they have learned to trust that their wings will catch them in freefall.
Does anybody know that the strings of her
apron dig into her stomach
On her ten minute break
Where the remnants of Costco chickpea puffs
Dust the tips of her fingers
and scatter in haphazard patterns
Where she swiped a delicate hand
Like when god created the cosmos
on her work soft jeans
Like stars
Twenty little poetry projects
Is the prompt for hour three
With images and metaphors
This prompt is not for me
Twenty lines that contradict
The lines that came before
One with “slang you’ve never heard of”
Another showing less is more
I sat and stared at every line
And thought “there’s just no way”
So instead I’ll flip it on its head
And do it all my way
My senses are much more than five
And because I’m deaf, one less
I can’t write as my future self
For she hasn’t got here, yet
But I can give you twenty lines
Oh, look, I’m almost there
I’ll take your prompt and make my own
With a little Mandy flair
Perhaps I’ll make it 32
Little poetry projects hence
And here I am at 24
Who’s taking all the bets?
I’ll bet on me, it’s what I do
I’ll make my pen just dance
Through all the lines until I’m done
I’ll always take that chance
C’est la vie, it’s just my life
The way I’ve always lived it
On the edge of some bloody knife
I’ll survive when someone twists it.
~Mandy Kocsis©2023~
Death is a fallow field
memory what grows there, thin and fragile-stalked
fragrant as basil
a cacophony of birds
I can taste their songs
honey on the tongue
Glen told me once
perhaps on a boat floating down
an ancient river one of so many
we rode together
that death was a killing field
Nothing grows there, he said
But I have seen the leaves sway
beneath the Lahaina banyan
and maybe it will live
Perhaps the fire ignited
a phoenix heart
nestled among a thousand trunks
the igneous gold of survival
where fire becomes wings
and I can fly to you
on bright feathers.
Britt, you told me,
I am leaving.
Welcome death for me
it is my friend.
Non, I answer:
Le mort n’est pas notre ami.
The banyan tree nods
its many naked, seared heads
and the fallow field of death
is lightly furred with green
My mind has cranky wheels and bearings that squeak loudly
My eyes see the days ahead in colors and deep textures.
Do the wheels and gears generate my soul
or does my soul spin them instead?
Doubts dance like lilies on the water
with the wind stern and fresh
I reach my hand deep within, further and further
until my eyes twinkles then mist
the mist itself evaporating into my
yesterday thoughts.
It is aesthetic to sit with your thoughts
Having conversations with yourself
Whether it be a solo bus ride home
Or with your early morning caffeine
A lonesome walk from the busy west to east crossover
The ramblings and rants of others blur
Imbecile to the prudence and impressions of people
To let your thoughts saunter along
To detach your consciousness
To salvage yourself from expectations
It is indeed a privilege
It is sweet and sweeter than ever
To just be!!