24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Found
smooth eggshell blue pebbles
scooped from ground
repurposed
Pebbles plopped
into each wooden pit
Like eggs snuggled in a nest
waiting to be plucked an moved
strategically on the board
to another wooden pit
Mancala
One of the oldest games around
Hour Thirteen – Life is Mary Pecaut
Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. John Lennon
Neither good nor bad – life happens.
Like when Fatima, 17, was diagnosed
with Severe Aplastic Anemia.
Her bone marrow stopped producing blood cells.
No red cells, no white cells, no platelets.
There was no treatment in Mauritania.
Her home, a geographic death sentence.
We traveled the world in search of a cure.
Her first passport, first time on an airplane –
The woman seated next to her
touched the bald man’s head in front
in order to perform ablutions?
First prayer in the skies.
In Tunis, another bone marrow biopsy.
I bribed armed guards at the blood hospital
for packets of liquid gold to transfuse.
Cradling platelet packets, I rocked and sang
Gratitude prayers for donors we’d never meet.
I added your name to the four year wait list
for a stem cell transplant. Of course – Libyans had fled
their war. We rocked platelet packets and sang
gratitude prayers for donors we would never know.
Could your brother be a match for a transplant?
In Malaysia, ATG shock and awe –
An attempt to zap her body into production.
It didn’t work.
She embraced
Muslim nurses’ fashion – colorful Head scarves with pins,
wrote her first English words
in mashed potatoes on the hospital tray
thank you.
Vietnam platelets were the best – lasted the longest.
Fatima mastered chopsticks, designed modest clothes,
sewed and learned to bow and say, ‘Xin chao’.
By the time she reached the NIH, in the US
she was a transfusion pro
Her brother was the match!
The medical team, cleaning staff
proposed ‘‘Songs of the Day’ for her intensive
care stay. The transplant recovery kids
from Childrens’ Inn danced the halls at night,
as she shuffled, her partner the IV pole.
A three year odyssey of healing
The world kept her alive.
content warning: none I don’t think, but the poem has a sad tone
watch as she dances
redefines
the motion and rhythm
seemingly combine.
so much is portioned
and taken out.
the mask she is wearing
is falling apart.
there will be a time
when she sees the world new
but for now she is broken
her life on undo.
She was born from earth
Meant to lie beneath man
That was never her plan
Now she dreams of wings that shimmer like mother of pearl in the daylight.
Sometimes they were golden.
Never quite the same.
They were warm, her shelter from the rain and the snow.
They cradled her while she dreamed.
She looked in the river and she was gorgeous, her wings reflected back in her beautiful ocean eyes.
This is always when the dream changes.
She screams.
The false god rips her garden away and her wings.
She used to know how to fly, that was before her bones were broken.
Trapped within a hurricane, long forgotten the art of taking off.
Bogged down in the wind and rain feels like drowning.
She reached for someone and they freed her but with freedom she lost her wings.
Remember childhood?
A blue balloon bringing sheer joy
to all brothers-is it that simple
to be happy when you are a child?
Did we forget to be
happy like children?
When did it happen?
This summer I will drive to 16 shows
8 in August 8 in September
through several states and time zone changes.
Janice will accompany me along with others
as we travel to spread our love for a Boyband.
A single mom with three kids
she needs a sanity break,
a friend to hitch a ride from.
No one should be left alone including I,
the unmarried, childless one.
Together, we will hit highways of places
we’ve never been.
Met as we both traveled alone to LA,
now we decided to never be alone.
We are each other’s company
making memories on the highways of music.
Chuckling, a sedoka
I’m on daddy’s knee.
His big hands around my waist.
His fingers tickling my sides.
I try to escape,
but that will never happen.
I cackle and howl.
the exhausted mother
shut her eyes
her back was hurting
she didn’t have it in her
to tell her children
the regular bedtime story
just imagine, she said to them,
a beautiful garden
in front of your eyes
with flowers in bright
colours
and anima-
she sensed
a movement
in front of her
blinking
open her eyes
she saw her five-year old’s
head hover above her own
an anxious expression
on her child face
what’s the matter sweetheart,
she asked, concerned
mama, i’m looking
for the garden in your eyes
because there’s no garden
before my eyes
Prompt: “Tell me an old story (like a folktale from your culture, a fairytale you heard when you were young or a story passed down in your family). You can give it your own twist as well.”
A duality of morality
two angels
one good
one bad
sitting on either shoulder
telling me how I should act
Are these angels best friends?
enemies?
siblings?
Lovers?
Good cannot exist without bad
Destined to be separated for eternity
by the human shoulders
they must always stand
Cottony puff balls of vapor Scudding across a blue sky Roiling and rolling into shapes As the atmospheric winds push them along Who hasn't, as a child, lain on the grass Looking up and imagining seeing something Where it shouldn't be Competing with siblings and friends to find it first I can no longer look up without getting dizzy And I'm certainly not going to lie on my back in the grass As I get itchy from just the thought, But I do look for different signs What is the weather going to be like Are the contrails made by cirrus clouds Or the vapor of jets high above Those are my concerns of today Now and then I think I should take the time To look upward - keeping my balance by sitting In a lawn chair - to see if I can see The imaginings of my inner child