24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Prompt: “Write a poem with the last line being a question and the answer being the title.”
No amount of saying sorry,
will soothe your broken heart.
Hands sweating,
mind racing,
rip off the bandage,
it must be done.
A loss
for the best,
time to move on.
And when people ask me,
what was the hardest thing I’ve done?
The Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams
I was Amanda, and he missed the poignance.
There at the end we sat as in family montage.
No bows, odd applause, though we had done well.
Just a few in the audience, a small black box
theater in Miami, post 9/11, before I remembered.
He sat two feet before my face, staring a loving smile.
His child had done well, that being me, since now I know.
“He has my nose, poor guy,” I thought to myself,
then looked away. It’s impolite to stare at the audience.
A party after the show, and he so shyly approached,
I, in pure ecstatic bliss, a bit of a drunken mess – that fast.
“I’m your father,” he said to me.
“I believe you,” I laughed. “I knew my mother had an affair!”
“You didn’t have to be rude!” he said, and walked away.
He was serious. I was just kidding, not believing.
“No, wait, I must just look like her. I hope you find her.”
I implored, attempting to heal the wound I’d made.
“I already have. It’s you.” He turned, and left.
Not one more word did we speak until his death.
When I finally remembered six months later,
his words saved my life. I’m not crazy!
I am not the person on my vital statistics!
They lied! They cheated! They tried to paint me crazy,
but I am not crazy. I am his child.
And, the power he gave me in so few words,
just like a father would – he gave me peace.
Just like a father does – he saved my life.
I’ve Fangs of beast
But no teeth,
Claws but bear no eyes
My children might soon go extinct
They take your children’s lives
Coyote Burned me once
And Bobcat hid my wife
I have an empty stomach
With which to feast on flesh
They burned me to leave me dead
But I’ve returned to man’s dread
What am I?
Hour Sixteen – “Write a poem with the last line being a question and the answer being the title.”
Your Hand
What could be more tiny and simple?
Than a pimple on a dimple
on the left side of the right bum
of an ant?
Now I know better.
What could possibly be smaller
(And more perfect)
than your little hand?
The one that I held all night
the day I brought you home.
Smallest, most perfect little fist
that held my heart.
My large, fit-to-burst heart
in your tiny, tiny hand.
What else then, could be
the smallest of God’s creation?
I know that I’m not pretty and a few likes on Instagram doesn’t make me important.
Life isn’t some fairytale it’s just a lot of bad with dreams thrown in it.
It’s a silent room trying to make my body fit your shape.
The pieces of my heart burn.
The edges catching flame, until there is a fire roaring inside my chest.
They beg for you to smother them out.
Drown out the pain and take me down.
The edges of the scars you left tug at me.
The pain makes me dizzy and close to throwing up.
This grainy picture is only the build up.
Sometimes I ask myself if I ripped my beating heart from my chest and handed it to you would that finally be enough for you to see I care?
The pavement cracked
over the soggy ground.
Green sprouts emerged
and sunflowers exhalted.
Making their own space
away from the oak tree
with a sign nailed to it
Don’t pick the flowers.
lust ˈləst \
1: usually intense or unbridled sexual desire: He was motivated more by lust than by love. 2a: an intense longing: CRAVING a lust to succeed 2b: ENTHUSIASM, EAGERNESS they admired his lust for life
There have been times in my life
I have certainly lusted
appropriately, and not
semantically, literally, morally
my lustful natures have
taken many forms
any theologian, of any
dogmatic stripe
will tell you lust is a
perennial top-ten fave
for adherents and
best-seller for clergy
many a preacher has
made his bones
railing against his flock
jumping someone else’s
There have been times in my life
I have certainly lusted
appropriately, and not
I could recite you a list – names,
places, circumstances
consequences, results
any theologian, of any
dogmatic stripe
could find fault
with my logic
non-apologetics
but hey I’m not
writing scripture
I’m just a poet
railing against nothing
simply stating fact
There have been times in my life
when lust for life has
moved to do good
Call it craving, enthusiasm – eager
I have been, eager I
will remain in my lust for keeping on
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Hour Fifteen – Clarity Mary Pecaut
Inspired by
Photo by Filipp Romanovski on Unsplash
Clarity
Late autumn leaves thin
as lace reveal what might
otherwise be concealed.
Veins branching and rebranching
like city roads carry loads
of water and sugar navigating
xylem and phloem cells.
The leaf is able to be leaf.
Fully itself.
The hummingbird is content
as itself.
The path is the path
in conversation with its surroundings.
Who are you?
At one time
it was super tough
and words were my only rescue
On Open Mic poetry night
I gave the audience
a close up
to my behind the scenes
I inherited my mother’s story
believing mine would end up differently
I learned somewhere to place the sugar cubes between my teeth
it can make anything bitter taste better
so I did
I stumbled into masking
the lie
sipped it in
by default I didn’t tell anyone the truth
but I didn’t lie either
suffering more from my thoughts
than circumstances
anything you hide comes out
eventually
so feel the energy
and give that experience a name