24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
That thing that hangs on the wall jumbled thoughts, inspiration is where ideas I do scrawl to organize as I sit to write On that machine with the buttons that make up the words that roll up into stories of heroes, the ordinary and the nerds To be read on pages bound together or scrolled on screens or listened to, whatever on that little device you hold to your ear
A shower or a long bath?
Salt or sugar? Pain or pleasure?
How do you want our life to be?
Do you have any idea at all?
Write a poem about a routine or ritual that is part of your life. It can be something like making coffee every morning, or something like attending religious services once a week.
Some people thrive on routine,
On knowing what comes next,
On following the familiar path;
I am not one of those people.
Erratic schedules never phased me.
Late nights and early mornings,
Meal times scattered throughout the day,
Varied school or work hours, as assigned.
Of late, though, I try to maintain routine.
Alarms set to wake up and take pills,
Controlling when to work and when to play.
Could it transform my life?
Well, still no regular times to eat,
Still no common time to sleep,
As yet, no repetition-wrought epiphanies;
Could routines be overrated?
a small piece of peace
given : we’ve all : only known each other : less than a week : it’s pretty remarkable : how well we all : get along : the most conflict : i guess unsurprisingly : given they’re sister & brother : is between Stella & Rueben : who you can tell : though they love each other : since that first day of truce : reunited : do also : know which buttons : to push
we’re all spread around : a small fire : singing sparks : into the dark sky : discussing : what we miss most : no one can agree : & weirdly : it’s not so much : the tablets : & internet : as uniquely : personal : things : but then : Ben says : pizza
& suddenly : for the first time : there’s a beat : of genuine : silence : as we all remember : piping hot : pizza : greasy fresh : from the box : till Rueben breaks : the ceasefire : gotta be Hawaiian : & Priya screech-shouts : pineapple : on piz-zah! : please tell me you’re kidding
& that moment : just before : Margherita : & BBQ chicken : & supreme with anchovies : pepper the air : is one of the happiest : of my life : so far
Hour Twenty-Two
I could eat pizza every day.
I make my own l luscious, I’m not afraid of hate mail.
You see pizza has graced my palette for breakfast, leftover lunch and dinner etiquette.
Versatile, melting cheeses, veggies, meats, gluten free too. Pizza adornment needn’t a muse.
Pizza is medicinal and fragrant and true, If it’s not on your pizza, then it wasn’t meant to! DMW
Working in the dirt
Measure edges and depth
Remove just enough
Not to return again
Cover the opening
A neatly squared hole
With painted green board
Soft micro-grass carpet
Do not disturb surrounding
Planted red yellow purple
Flowers placed by loved ones
Each spring when ground thaws
Returning to tuck in
The old widow’s ashes
While son and daughter
And grandchildren look on
All have gone home
While the ground is raked
Leaving the old gal with him
To rest in peace
In the still-rural village of my 1960’s childhood
we had already gained a reputation for adventurous cooking at home…
Mum being an Elizabeth David fan.
My sister’s classmates gathered round her when she brought ingredients
for spaghetti bolognese
to domestic science class.
Guest toyed, curious,
with the soy sauce
placed on the table with more usual condiments.
A scone pizza recipe
sealed our celebrity in the street,
so easy for us kids to make,
on large rectangular baking tins.
Tomatoes, cheese,
herbs and garlic (unheard of).
Reflective playground of relationship
You falter in yellow I recover in green
I shed tears in orange You feel joy in blue
You gain insights in purple while I hold space for you
We were never alike in many ways,
but we managed a semblance
of common ground
at least where it counts…
I like spinach and Ricotta cheese
with buttered garlic sprinkled on top.
While you have your pepperoni
steaming hot, straight from the box.
Will you meet me halfway
where the picnic tables
jostle the weeds in the backdrop
of a Tuscan sky?
You bring your bottle of wine
I will pack the the chequered blanket
and we can sling the sun underneath
our shoulders and brave the seven seas again.