24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
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Sometimes that hour drive between us feels insurmountable. Like
COVID moved us states apart before I did that. You’re stuck in the stifling
heat of the kitchen sacrificing your body for a
year’s worth of pay and then some in a single summer. I miss your
laugh and ocean side walks and wanting to hold your hand.
Ever wonder what we could have been? Could have felt? I’ll keep
recommending Tucker & Dale vs Evil to pretend you’re near.
Dear gods [substitutes for brain],
You gave us a thought where
We’re both here and there in
The same instances. Existence.
A theory found with the entire
Science. Milky Way to infinity.
I’m black means there’s as much
Possibilities of my existence as
A white lily as there are thorn
On the face of the earth—mother.
My father is dead means
The dead are a planted war song;
Hovering the night sky for the perfect
Pitch to fall unto. The universe
Says they’re all the same. My father
And I . coral hit on the surface of
the mediterranean.
I believe in the existence of time
Traveling, I’m merely seeking a
Sign to call another existence
my own.
Give my father life for no other
Reason that he still breathes in
My bones.
That death is an exit wound into
A parallel universe where all my
People are my own, all their
Thick skin with smoke—stardust—
All the stones on a tomb reverse back
Into ashes. If my world and the parallel
Are same, eject my existence from
The branch of wormholes that
Holds unto memory—give me a new
Name, give me somewhere else to call
Home. The parallel means I’m in a
Linear state to hold breath,
Body of languages and none to
Call my own . The parallel means
I’m shot by a police for not being in
The right universe. The parallel
Means there’s a gathering of people
In a wedding that is yet to be my own.
The parallel means a woman is nursing me
In the belly of a woman that just conceived me.
The parallel means my father is not yet in front
Of the bullet that would wipe him clean.
The parallel means I’m waking in all the
Places I cannot yet call home .
The parallel means there’s a place
My father would be late to attend his death
And is still nursing his bullet wound,
The parallel means that is where I strike first.
Best things in the world are free
And I’m glad one of them forms the first thing I do after waking up
Is it my morning adulation?
Nope
It’s drinking two glasses of water
That sets everything right
And as they say well begun is half done
This is how I ensure the next few hours go by smoothly
In response to text prompt number 20
A world unlike this one
would be so much fun
i‘d name it Your Choice
and we’d all have a voice.
Money, no problem
rich or poor, all pocket none
instead of currency, we
will deem everything free.
No hunger, or thirst
food provided, no hurts
massive gardens, everywhere
and everyone shares.
Crime, bullies, none here
kindness, tolerance aware
we all smile and care
hugs always be there.
Politics, they’ll be none
no parties, but one
to be peaceful and kind
clean the air and the mind.
So soon, we will run
the next galaxy, we come
blasts a rocket of fun
to a world unlike this one.
– Sandra Johnson, 9-3-2023
Loving toads the way I do
May seem a bit disturbed
Warts and all I love these guys
They’re smart haven’t you heard
Nightcrawlers are about the best
Long and soft and wiggly round
Keep several in my cold fridge
Hoping fishing pole is found
Ladybugs will come and go
I’ll never sweep them out
Promises my wish comes true
I’m sure without a doubt
Little critters can be good pals
Please keep them far from harm
Be careful when you move about
They could be your lucky charm
Alternative
My dreams of late transport me
to both a different place and time.
I am a child once more, though
my legs are broken, and I travel by
means of wings.
I twist the muscles between
my shoulder blades
just so to unlock them.
Majestically, they rise from my back,
and I join flocks like myself
wheeling across the sky, and suddenly
my broken body matters no more.
Keyboard and computer.
My fatigue a palpable reality.
I don’t feel like writing.
Sleep.
Yesterday’s latte petroglyph
inside the rim beg for a sip
from a fresh cup.
Sleep.
Two notebooks, one for work
the other for wishes,
though both drift together.
Sleep.
What happened to ButterBeauty?
I think a mouse, perhaps
under the couch.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
I do not want illusions in my life!
Is it crystal clear? I need certainty!
What do you need? Is it me
you are looking for? For sure?
Upon the turn of the century
We (I) beseech my nation
to redact our previous laws
to protect the population (fundamentalists)
These laws allow too much leeway (freedom)
to the people (masses) causing chaos (rebellion)
So in that regard we will redact (takeaway)
particular laws allowing women to make choices (rights)
When I was a young man
hey ho my love did bloom
the world my oyster pan
but lo, my heart wa laughter’s own
When I was an eager man
hey ho my love did bloom
to places of rejoicing I ran
but lo, my heart wa laughter’s own
When I was a conceited man
hey ho my love did bloom
oblivious to the rule of clan
but lo, my heart was laughter’s own
When I was a clowning man
hey ho my love did bloom
rejecting any thoughtful plan
but lo, my heart was laughter’s own
When I was a less younger man
hey ho, my love did bloom
and how I’m here, so glad to stand
and lo, my heart is laughter’s own