24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I want to be that girl
Made of honey and clover
Lost in the pages of other worlds
That smells of vanilla and cinnamon
I want to be that girl
Tender hands of nature
Hair kissed by the sun
Dirt under her fingernails
I want to be that girl
Blooming flowers made of sunshine
A product of pure radiance
Attracting eyes at the supermarket
I want to be that girl
That other girls want to be
In the dark of night
the Poetess
tends her void
healing her wounds
through her words
the affection of her longevity
mischievous curiosity
she surrenders to liberation
only found through transformation
ready to ascend
the Poetess
faces her fears
digs deeper into her truth
ready for the change
due for rebirth
A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.
What do you stand to gain if you don’t ask?
When will the lives
of the ones that they hunt
be worth more than the amusement
of those who kill them for fun?
Prompt from BlueJay Prompt Journal: What never mattered, anyway?
Prompt 17:
Somewhere in northern lousiana
but farther south than I’m willing to admit –
there’s a house with a dusty rose bar stool
that has had four dozen poems written about it
and a drawing of a monkey holding a unicorn
on faded newsprint paper – in charcoal far too
perfect to have been crafted by whim.
Together they hold on to everything that is left
of the person I was simultaneously most proud
and least proud of being – wrapped up in empty
bags that held kona coffee at one point – but smell
of pistachios – because that’s just how things in this
place were. They followed the rules of reality –
but were somehow still part of something entirely different.
It was in that house that you told me – to follow my dreams
and fuck the expectations thrust upon me. Where you said
you’d forever be my artist if only I could continue to write.
And now you’re back but the house isn’t and my eyes
swell with tears I don’t know how to explain. And you are
indeed my artist – but even that does not feel like
enough.
-M. Rene’
There’s no place I’d rather be
Snow covered windows with a heavy breeze
Fire crackling at our feet
Fit snugly in your arms
Tracing my finger over your palms
Nothing is quite as calm
Our little haven we created
Something to be appreciated
Train Station
Much activity.
Many people.
Slice of humanity,
all going somewhere.
Two police people, leaning,
talk about retirement.
Patient, competent, nice-braids woman
works the information desk.
Old marble floor and tiles.
Continuous renovations to make travel more pleasant.
Announcements Guy, graduate of Garblefield Academy says,
Attention all passen…grubsch to the blashedep on gromublunden…
Must know stuff in a train station.
Regular riders already know stuff,
faces revealing worry about work and kids,
not their track location.
Must wait to know stuff.
Don’t tell you where you’re going
until right before you need to be there.
Adds to the excitement.
Stop. Take a breath.
Hope it’s not full of COVID.
Lift your bow, and breathe
Pick your target
Do not take your eyes off
Blink and you will miss your opportunity
Take it one shot at a time
For an arrow cannot hit twice
content warning: 17 hours in and this is hitting me hard 😀 i just mention my Autism and disabilities for this one, but don’t go into anything
Okay so, I’m a bit tired
and most of my poetry has been
stream-of-consciousness,
not really ordered.
That’s the kind of poetry I write best,
more emotion than sense.
logicless.
But gods I am beginning to feel this.
Seventeen poems isn’t that hard, in the grand scheme of things –
It’s the timing, it’s the
“my Autistic brain isn’t made for this”,
it’s the “sleep is a struggle except I sleep all the time”
chronic-fatigue-PTSD-combo
and I am
really
feeling this.
I have regrets.
Like, a lot of them.
But 17 hours in and that’s 17 poems done
And I am 7 hours and 7 poems away from sleep.
So even though I’m tired I’m pretty excited, too.
I’m doing something cool,
something new –
I kinda think NaNoWriMo’s easier.
50k words in a month
means I do not spend 24 hours straight
awake.