24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
CW: Brain/head injury
I need to forgive me for what I forget
as my brain has been scrambled 12 too many times.
Bruising the several pounds of flacid bacon inside my skull
was not my plan but here we are.
The electric signals don’t flow quite right.
Words and ideas becoming harder and harder to rescue from the fog.
There’s no lighthouse inside my head to guide my way.
I will forgive me for what I forgot.
This Wealth Means Death
To some this orange hue is welcome
A lovely bloom in spring
A confident orange blossom
That wealth and happiness does bring
But to me this bloom means death
The stamen causes allergies
As fierce as tiger’s claws
The petals poison those I care for
A cat’s worst enemy
For though it smells like love
And brings your family blessings
Lily spells death for furry friends
Who chew upon its head
So do not gift me lilies
Despite your best intents
In this house it’s unwelcome
Here your wealth means death
The only way to have peace is to coexist with the storm.
I tire
of my kids
on somedays
I want to keep them safe
I can’t
I put them first
but lack the emotional ability to provide
they push my boundaries
casting shadows over my own memories
of self
I’m too busy trying to provide
its unnatural
what I am expected to be
in this world
I ache when I respond with lack of regard
and offer apologies
and hugs
but never enough.
what makes a parent toxic?
Stillness and Serenity
Still, there’s a sadness in the stillness of the night.
Trapped there in the blackness under wraps,
inspect the perimeter and watch out for the traps.
Lonely is the night, in the solitude you delight,
love to be left alone. There’s a desperate fight
nightly raging before they ever drew up the maps,
even before the west as we know it collapsed.
Still, we tried as we could, but it was all in spite.
Still we still tried, tried with all of our power.
All of our struggle and all of our strife
never amounted to anything more than band aid.
Dejected, defected against the ivory tower.
So, as the Beatles’ sung, “Run for your life.”
“Everybody has something to hide it’s a charade.”
reads the headline outside the arcade.
Every little creature dims down the bulb,
neatly planted in rows and creased at the fold.
Individually packaged and then underlined in bold,
The time for action is now, let me show you how.
You only have to listen and give me your vow.
Hour eighteen, 2 am
Stillness and Serenity
(form Acrostic/ Caudated Sonnet)
Charlie the Mayfly.
v.j.calone
It’s the little things that count.
That’s what they say, like
a shy smile or
a baby’s hug.
But what about the big things?
They count a lot.
When your son says
I hate you
but you make it through
or the job gave you
a promotion when
you didn’t know what to do.
Those are big; life changing.
It is the little things that count.
It is the big things count.
Don’t discount either
but find a place
of gratitude
and stay there.
p
this is the language of the universe
in patterned rotation
determined orbit
when we step back and observe
the movements
predictable
consistent
reliable
the sun comes up again
who am I to say that any occurrence
can be labeled “good” or “bad”
I’m still trying to define what makes a person
either
both
or none
until the stories have run their course
and every outcome’s been explored
I remain the zen farmer at sunrise
who would have figured / a simple notification chime / would shift my world so
Brave Mouse
Traipsing across
My floor…
Skippity doo~dah
Now you are
No more…
Didn’t you see
My kittens three?
Einstein in his 80s
You shall not be…
Jenny to birth. My room
a nursery. The chickens will never
come home to roost
little ladies on walkabout.
Jenny reborn, joyous in her
bleeding heart. Her cries
are smiles. Her smiles
are laughter. Her laugh
is a church bell loud enough
to rock all of Dublin.
Jenny unchanged, her hair
woven gold. She loves me still,
stray dog though I am.
Jenny across an ocean.
Jenny lost and found.