24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Whether the dawn spills
Slowly as winter honey
over the land
Or it escapes night’s grasp
And leaps for freedom
Skipping
Along the edges
Of lapis clouds
Against cerulean skies
I greet each day
As another chance
To get right
What it means to be me
And crave to crave less
To make simpler
To take away
Until the poem contains
But one word
And then none at all
Save the perfect silence
Where all is said and answered
In return.
Early Morning Thoughts: Hour 1 6am September 2, 2023
Waking up, coffee in hand,
the sun still isn’t here,
rain clouds coat the sky in
layers of silver linings and
potential. I am exactly where
I need to be, even if I cannot
name this place, sipe spresso
on the veranda with my mother,
or smell wild mint crawling up
the driveways of people I love
and miss more now.
-M. Rene’ AKA SincerelyBlueJay Poetry
fingers weave
yours and mine
you press hard
demanding
punishing
hurtful
are these my fingers
is this love
WRITING A POEM ON POEM
Today I must write a poem on poem
Should I search on Google for inspiration?
That is not a creative solution
It will only lead to cheating and frustration
What should my poem pattern be?
Or should I first go sit under the tree
Should I just let my words flow
Then my poem will not be slow
How should my poem start?
It seems like such a difficult art
How should my poem end?
Should I take help from my friend?
So many questions, so many doubts
I guess I will only follow my heart
A poem describes just my feeling
Writing our thoughts, is a form of positive healing
BY SHREYA SURAJ
3am poem 1
First Responders, Lahaina, Maui, HI, 8/9/2023
“Diana Khoi Nguyen, Selkie Weaning Young (Redux)”
I imagine they
“trailed fingers down and against grains of” ash
before the futility of rising
left them empty armed
the nameless strewn,
powder on sand,
around their boots
.
this is the beginning:
first, all man thought of was living.
dices thrown, chances open. happiness kept blooming.
to eat was a game of want; much abundance spinning.
we are on to the end.
this is the beginning
then, the moment in time was fulfilling.
laughter choked, the heat made stale. plans advancing.
to live became a game of the best; man started sinning.
we are on to the end.
this is the beginning
in all, the adversary’s innocence was winning.
habituality bored, trials observed. the risk was cooling.
to die is a game of survival; now man lost living.
we are on to the end.
We had all the money in the world
and wanted a tiny house
She said there’s this gate house for sale
gates not included
but it has this road
it bubbles like an island in the middle of this nowhere
road with nice yellow stripes making sexy curves
It’s the tiny house we always wanted
destentatious
So we bought it
Bought the road too
to keep away the riff raff
She called it cute, as women do
It was perfect for us
idyllic
until she painted the interior lime green
while I was at the dentist
That’s the last time I’ll go to the dentist
obviously
Guarded Gatehouse
Buzzing sounds of cicadas
timeless memories
The words delete as fast as l type
pages that should be drowning in ink
stare back blankly
l blink with confusion
Chocking on
promises made
but can’t keep
Late at night, driving through wilderness
a little shack, glowing with light
beacon in middle of nowhere – cue theremin
The road diverges on either side of the shack
I am headed in, does anyone ever come out?
I stop, maybe a hundred feet short of the split
throat dry, mind racing, inner voice rising
irrational fear and primal ear hairs reactive
sweaty palms clench, unclench steering wheel
Calming as I remember I am traversing
remote, protected wilderness I ease off brakes
inch toward the little cabin, figuring to laugh
with the park ranger who probably sees
many such as I, approaching with trepidation
though there remains in my head a lingering,
gnawing fear from too many teen movies
inexplicably, reflexively slamming on brakes
I become acutely aware of self-palpitations
feel the sweat oozing from forehead
dryness of mouth akin to desert hiking
irrational ‘it will eat me’ while
contemplating gunning my car right past
whatever horrors real or imagined
inhabit this remote bastion of desolation
simultaneously reminding myself how
silly such unwarranted fear is simply
imagination run amok even as I become
aware of suddenly sweat-stained armpits
surely now showing on blood red shirt
it’s gonna eat me
I again take my foot off the brake
advance toward whatever awaits, aware
that devils take many forms, evil can
often be found wearing khakis and hats
I pull alongside the cottage, prepared
to gun it away from who, whatever
is in there as the window slides open I
croak out an edgy ‘How are you tonight?’
“Great” says the young woman in crisp
khaki shirt, wide brimmed hat
“Did you guys remember the sauce
and the fries this time?!”
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
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