24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Lovely evening is upon me
Reds, blues, so many hues
Clouds rolling across the sky
Like waves of an ocean
Enjoying every color and hue
Forgetting the world is in chaos
How can I just stay in this moment
Freeze it and never leave
But no, the world keeps moving
And I along with it
Evening is upon me lovely
Reds, blues, too many hues
Rolling across the sky, the clouds
Waving to the ocean
pure dew
as mothers
perceive
the little one’s
toothless mouth
when widens with tinted cheeks.
Type: A cherita poem
content warning: just an introspective monologue to my past self, should be good
I Talk A Lot To My Past Self
I see so much of you in me.
The way I smile. The giddiness
of learning something new.
I see it in the way I grasp my body,
touch my face, all those little insecurities.
I see it in the quiet moments,
when I do something outrageous,
make a nonsensical joke.
It’s hard to believe I was ever you.
I’m so different now, even though
you left your mark on me.
You filled your head with what you knew,
little judgments created by ignorance
and the fact you didn’t know
how to express the way you felt.
But you were also kind.
I know your hands; they’re my hands,
even though my hands are bigger now.
They touched gently. They gave
the best hugs. They still give pretty good ones.
I’m not sure what you’d think about me,
and that’s the strangest bit of all.
We’re one in the same.
Would you hate me? (No, that’s not like you)
Tonight, I will tuck you in and sing you a song,
and tell you that it’s okay that you’re different.
I’ll let you know all the words you need to know
to describe yourself.
You’ll be okay, kid; you’ll make it out.
After all, I’m still around.
When I looked into my crystal ball,
casting a line out ahead of me
into the rippling waters of the future,
I saw a dense fog, locked boxes—
inaccessible things
There was little solace in these visions
no receipts nor guarantees
that things will turn out positively—
best to assume Death,
says the winding of a busy mind
In the evening, I watch the birds on the line
keeping an ear to the tunes
shuffling through headphones
for some good news—a paltry portent,
or a teensy, wee glimpse behind the veil
On the occasion, I am permitted a peek
just an inch in front of my nose
I can just make out the shape of things
And the faintest waft of freesia and jasmine
through fastened keyholes
I’ve grown more comfortable
with leaving well enough alone
until there’s a tug on the line
prompting me to again ask:
What’s next?
All my life I have been a bee of endless activity/
Never was there a miniscule period of passivity/
As I child turned over, crawled, walked in no time/
Grew up to be an adult as clocks endlessly did chime.
Got onto a hamsters wheel pedaling without an end/
Ignoring the desperate pleas that my near and dear did send/
Money money was the only mantra that I chanted/
Didn’t stop even when I had all that I ever wanted.
I have now grown old, feeble and tired/
My neurons suddenly seem to be differently wired/
My life been a long course of studies with little knowing/
Now my inner soul, after serious contemplation, tell me, ” where am I going?”
Twin Flame to my soul, I have dreamt of you
Yet I do not know, are you real
I grow and evolve, with each dat that passes
Am I meant to be happy now, until the end of time
If our Souls exist outside of time
Will we meet with our loved ones again
Both Time and Christmas are Fathers
So who is hooking up with Mother Nature
If Luck is a Lady and chance is a fine thing
Shouldn’t all our wishes on crossed fingers come true
With benevolent Aliens watch us, waiting for us to evolve
Wouldn’t it be time we all start group therapy sessions
If the Illuminati truly exist
Why don’t they start their own reality show
Living under God, Muhammad, Shiva, Quan Yin, and Buddha
Can’t we simply thrive in peace and love
Since I am Creatrix of all reality
Shouldn’t I be Queen or Cher by now
Knowing I am the Watcher, not the Thought
Do I truly exist?
(Prompt: “Write a poem with the last line being a question and the answer being the title.” – Contributed by Megan Ameel Dobson.)
Signal Humanity
The colors of the rainbow bleed from my back pocket,
signal humanity.
I am the calm hope
to someone else’s storm.
I am the safety pin
on your denim jacket
holding the hand
of a child that
felt unloved before
a pride parade.
I am a free hug
on our friend’s porch when you
had nothing left
to lose
and nowhere to go.
The rainbow in my back
pocket will be
the noose I wrap around
my neck until everyone
else is safe and free.
Never mind, the World Goes On
Never mind the world goes on without you.
Even you can’t stop the tide or keep the wave from crashing.
Vex and question, but, you’ll never find the answer.
Even if you knew the answer would it stop the coming season?
Reason and logic would be of no use
my friend, when you try to understand nature.
In my opinion, if it mattered, I’d say, “We
need the Mayfly as much as we need to save the whales.
Do unto other’s as you would have them do unto you,
that is the golden rule. All you really need to know.
He who is without sin go ahead and throw the first stone.
Each one is unique and no man is an island for sure.
We are the world. Yet the world will go on without us.
Only man can end the Mayfly and this I know is true.
Reach for the stars and at worst you’ll hit the back fence.
Look, “At least you’ll get off the ground.”
“Do unto others has you would have them done unto themselves.”
Goes the Platinum Rule. But, never forget the world rolls
on with or without you. “You are nothing special.” says one’s self.
Everyday another species is born and dies before our very eyes.
Sad, mother nature just laughs.
Only the gardener knows of the garden.
Never mind, the world goes on without me.
Hour sixteen, 12am
Never mind, the World Goes On
(form Acrostic/ prose)
Charlie the Mayfly.
v.j.calone
this is my special space
where my nails
scratched our love
into the old oak tree
i pause
remembering
sunflowers
were where
new pavement
comes quickly
this was my special place
My eyes swell, not shut
They crack open
They see a fuzzy image unclad in glasses and grainy with trapped matter.
But underneath they puff and somehow resist
All of it.
Lights and sights and sounds.
Can I see sounds?
Maybe my ears send a warning shot racing across my nerves.
Damn.
That sound. You don’t want to see the cause of that.
I guess we call it tired.
But tired is up all night to cram for an exam.
Too many “last drinks” on the night that got away.
A grueling 12 hour shift ground to a halt. Ground deep into the ground.
But all that tired has
Release.
Ugh.
Release.
Finished tests, hangovers that end, bones and flesh reaching bed.
What do you call the feeling though,
If you work the grueling shift
Everyday
9 years straight.
What word can describe that?
Dead? Hardly.
Stuck? A bit.
Deluded? Destructive?
What word does we use for a tired that we can’t pinpoint the origin of and no rest on the horizon?
How is it I feel?