24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Silence
The absence of sound
Stillness
The pause
So much lives in that pause that we take for granted
In this too loud, too fast, too much world
We forget the pause
The inhale
The exhale
The breath
The pause
That pause holds infinity
It says more than can be said in a lifetime
That moment
That second
That pause
Allows us to reflect and compose
To create meaning for all that is not
Silence
after Nico Wilkinson
When my partner
greets the morning with coffee
he does so with gentle precision.
He grips with fingertips,
never palms,
does not want to overwhelm
what is already warmed for him.
My partner worships
at the altar of the espresso machine
having tuned it so carefully
to fit his needs.
He knows exactly
the impact caffeine will have
he’s made sure of it.
But suddenly, he’s weaning off coffee,
says it is making him jittery,
unable to think straight.
I wonder if he thinks about
how many other people
are drinking coffee, his coffee.
Cannot cleanse it from his mind
despite the bag locked in the cabinet
meant only for our own tastebuds.
My partner, he is done with coffee.
Will not meditate through
the practice of making anymore.
He is done participating
in the morning give and take
as we decide who has the energy to give.
Done with acts of service.
He is left unbothered
that my love for coffee remains.
How I started to cherish it again
in mugs I pulled from his cabinets,
rather, in the pieces
I pulled from his view.
My partner does not want coffee anymore
but I will love it hard enough, now
it will need nothing else.
Never before have I tasted its taste,
Until then I traveled to the East.
I said it before, and I will repeat the same
The most influential things are two only
A woman, and a dish of pizza.
Wouldn’t I tell you the reason for being an official bachelor?
Spending years scrutinizing for a Pizzaiola
Perhaps I was born under the shade of a grilled pizza.
The secret is that dish made –
of thinly rolled bread
dough spread with a spiced mixture,
With some tomatoes cheese and pepperoni.
“I think the genes for being an artist and mentally ill aren’t just related, they are the same gene” – Neil Hilborn
Robin Williams
Chester Bennington
Marilyn Monroe
Kurt Cobain
Sylvia Plath
Ernest Hemingway
Vincent Van Gogh
Virginia Woolf
and countless others
It’s a shame they can’t keep us all from high places
Entire worlds from my brain,
rising to the fore. Voices of those
echoing in my mind, telling their stories,
weaving their tales. And like every god,
I begin to spin, to warp and weft each tale,
layer upon layer, a story of destinies,
of peoples great and small, and
of d20’s scattered across a weather-beaten map.
I’ll bring the horizon, and the calamity,
and bring the players in,
we’ll see if heroes or villains shape the realm
that I have created once more.
The sky runs red tonight.
The streams that wreathe this little world
Are scarlet.
The bioluminescent grass
Is fading fast.
The fern caps are falling.
At dusk the day’s beginning.
The final day,
Six burnmarks long,
And all of it in dreaming.
The ilkies drift, their herders fled,
Shellstones shed,
And calling songs all silent.
Midnight and the high moon
Is silver.
Unsettling.
Its palor lends the day a sickly haze.
The night rivers grow closer now
The sulphur clouds
Will soon be washed away.
Dawn is near and the scouring
Is observed
By one last king.
A world of rich antiquity is gone.
Speaking mumble yet still maintaining a will,
The quietness of the early night saying hello.
Things are not quite right around,
I’m acting like on a drug but just a drop of coffee running on my blood.
I’m good, I guess I still am.
Pillows below but flying above,
My books on shelves are running back down.
Foods looks like on a mess which I can’t reach,
Am I on a beach?
Nope, I’m in a room full of fool,
And I’m one of those.
Text prompt
Write a poem describing your surroundings as inarticulately as possible but maintaining just a tiny bit of the truth.
#POETRYMARATHON2023 #HOUR19 #24HRSCATEGORY
Running
through my impoverished
historical neighborhood as children during play
transitioned to the battlefield as adults
in the midst of being poor
as kids we never had to look to one another for safety
As adults corners had a unlimited range that
once contained an invisible boundary that you knew you would get into trouble if you crossed
now we tailor our lives away from the ignited rage of poverty where gunshots keep you running
The levels rise,
One by one.
Move fast to keep up,
One small misstep drops you into the unknown.
With each level,
Comes new faces,
New situations.
Think quick,
Or get left behind.
i breathe and dive
into my body
my feet are flippers
as i plumb the depths
with ease
where am i headed?
ah, there it is, the sacral
region, and at once,
i see the cords, black
and stretching
as infinity
i tug
but nothing gives
just then a whisper
from the heart, “try
me, try me.”
i float to where the heart is
smiling at her eagerness to help
she shows me her little light and
tells me what to do
soon i have a highway
of light particles
heading towards
those massive cords
the light sent from her, my
heart works her magic
one cord at a time, releasing,
suturing, healing, cleansing
protecting, rejuvenating
the sacral cells stretch
vibrating at a higher frequency now
grateful for the freedom to create
i circle around inside
one last time
all is well
i breathe
and ground myself