24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hour Twenty Books For Beginners Mary Pecaut
How to Be A…
How to Free A…
How to Make
How to Escape
How to Live Like..
How to Give like…
How to Grow
How to Let Go
How to take a Breath
How to Cope with Death
How to Learn
How to Unlearn
I’m not your plaything
Or someone you want to contend with
I am not soft spoken
My voice a single sharp edge of honesty
Your guilt shamed ears
Doesn’t want to hear
I’m not the dust beneath your feet
Rather the dirt from the ditch
You dug for yourselves
My being is rich with God’s Divine protection
And you thought you’d have me
In a shallow burial
With your crocodile tears
And your script to follow at my wake
So you can all keep your story straight.
I am not the gavel that cracks down
Upon your felonious acts
Selling yourselves for chunk change
As money has become your God
And the truth your devil.
I am not easily dismissed
But easily missed
Hidden from sight
Until your hatred unearthed
The treasure beneath
For what you intended to break
He instead rebuilt
For what you intended to isolate
He instead reformed and evolved
For what you intended to frighten
He turned into laughter
For what you intended to hate
Turned into an overabundance of love.
I’m neither victim nor survivor
I’m not thriving to exist
For what you intended to harm and break down
He only reconstructed
I am not the frail or injured
I am lungs of air
Exhaling deeply
All that is my authenticity
Who I really am
As shallow minds focused upon
The minnows schooled the shoreline
But I am the big fish
Avoiding your hooks
By His Divine hand
He is the water
And I am the fish
And together we swim
Through the murky depths
And the ultraviolet iridescent blues.
I am the mystery
That none can figure
I am the puzzle
Not in lack of one piece
I am the enigma
That tortures your mind
I am the riddle
That you lack an answer
I am the wisdom
You lacked comprehension to absorb
I am the waters
That slip like silk between your fingers
As you try and catch me
And what you know of me
Is the wet waters that drip from fingertips
Just an outer covering
You wipe upon your thigh
Dry yourself off
And believe you know
I left streaks upon your fabric
And now you wonder at my expanse
Nevermind the riptide that once
Desired to draw you in
Swim within the shallows of your assuming
And ponder the depths I reach
It some had a toe in
Others ankle deep
But God Himself
Knows my heart and soul
And the power of my mind
The softness that bears
No rough edge.
Upon my mirrored surface
Exposes your face
A reflection you’re loathe to see
So you cast stones
To ripple across me
But I swallow them whole
And still I remain
When the ripple effect
Becomes a tidal wave
That will devour
Your whole city
And wash it with
My loving purpose.
This was my last dream of you and me.
A bed in a field of flowers
out of her sight, and away from him.
Just you.
Just me.
Just a bed in a field of flowers.
Just now I woke from a nap, and as usual
dreamed of you, walking past me in silence
taking my hand in stealth as she looks elsewhere.
You brushed past my shoulder, too close
in a crowded botanical, pulled me aside
for a kiss behind the geraniums.
Just you.
Just me.
Just a wall of beauty.
“Planes flying overhead,
Bombs exploding in the air,
Sirens blaring through the city.
Fear gripping your body,
Knowing what’s to come,
You run and hide,
But no matter where you hide,
Or where you run,
These experiences haunt you for life.
Escaping out of your country,
To lands unknown,
As refugees anew,
Trauma and scars refusing to leave you,
Years from your time in Ukraine.”
Hour 19
Casco Viejo, Panama City Mary Pecaut
Today I walk on cobbled streets, pass
facades – window frames frame
frangipanis, doorways speak of pirates past
missionaries and colonizers.
I might be a sympathizer
so in love with history am I. What might
be lost and what’s the cost
as we gentrify?
What of Luis, un-homed in the open air
behind Plaza Herrera square- this casco
where he studied and grew,
his childhood home – a five star condo-
left to panhandle for a brew.
The bell from Iglesia de la Merced
tolls telling a time when the church
was rebuilt stone by stone. A time
when pirates burned the city down.
A time when Jesuits, homeless on the beach
rose and built La Campania de Jesus –
a convent to convert. Luis tells me he is Catholic.
We are all looking to save and be saved.
A long stretch
A longer nap
Waiting for them to fetch
Any longer, I might snap
A blur image
Getting clearer by the second
Them coming to honour my lineage
Any minute now I reckon
Oh the moment of joy then comes
The bowl of fish is finally served
I stretch and sit, leaving fur on the couch
As I sniff my meal and paw at my hooman
A lone man in a black wool coat
From the ruined tower do keep vigil. Of old folks suspecting no ill
First he took the old barber out. Followed by poor old Mrs trout
The next week it was Becky’s turn. Then old Ben who couldn’t even run
One by one the old folks in town. All went out and had fun in turns
By that lone man in a black wool coat.
People always say
‘Classics are a good place to start’
Are they? I think not (more…)