24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Removed from the nail
As it hung by the door
Her sunflower satchel
Had just enough space
For a few of her favorite things
A hardback journal filled with drawings and poetry. Her favorite rose`, with a wineglass. Some chedder cheese, perchuetto, and of course strawberries.
Her softly padded feet, barely heard on pavement
At the ol’ oak, she spread the contents making herself at home in its shade.
Iam out it was a pleasure, glad i managed to endure the 12hrs on my debut all the best to the seniors who have another 12hrs to go, keep pushing i will do the sleeping on your behave.
Thnk you
Last night I
Dreamt
A dream that I cannot
Live
Awake
My days are the
Same
And I await
Change
I was ghosted.
Spent the second day of the new year alone,
crying,
downing an IHOP sundae.
Dressed in my finest.
Swearing off men.
But the next day, a ping.
A note from another man,
but wanting friendship.
A slow time, counting moments,
minutes, hours, days,
and now this new man,
this love of mine,
is a blessing in countless ways,
after feeling worthless for so long.
Laughter
Fathoms the mysteries of life
the lonely traveller
walks the countryside
with a ha ha and a ha ha…
Hour 11
@varenyas
Loud music bouncing off the walls
Happiness radiating from each person
Contagious laughter and genuine smiles
Everyone she loved gathered in a room
As she stood on the sidelines and watched
Her smile only grew wider
Her face lighting up with glee
The sun had long set
But the party hadn’t died down yet
‘Ten minutes to twelve’ someone announced
She pushed herself off the wall
Weaving through the crowd
Eyes scanning the room for the one she wanted to find
’10, 9, 8’, the countdown began
She spun around in circles, desperate
‘7, 6, 5’, Where could they be?
‘4, 3, 2’, Arms enveloped her in their sweet embrace
‘Happy New Year’ whispered softly in her ear
The muse is the sound of the drums,
the reflection of the paintings on the walls,
the monotones of the sculptures on the tables.
The muse is the art that screams in hushed voices
around the podium of expressions,
the voice of the rehearsing wordsmith,
the blank sheets, paper balls, and dripping pens.
The muse is the narrative pictures hanging below the roof,
the racing faces of told and untold stories,
compressed memories trapped on canvases.
The muse is the quiet of the telling streets,
the deliberating greenery of the valley,
the affectionate caresses of the leaves,
and the whispers of words through expanding stomata.
The muse is the thought never expressed,
the rioting words never written,
the stifled idea never manifested.
The muse is the fullness of them all,
in constant motion like an ocean
whose depths never ends and whose content never dries.
Secret relatives
New additions
Divorce
Marriage
Renewed Vows
Old year
New Year
Time is slow
Time is fast
Now what?
As I sit there
Getting a glance of the outside world
Thoughts and emotions at peak
Strangers come and go
I sit as my mind wanders
Observing things around
My mind travelling to othe places
Physically here, but not in spirit
I remember flying freely
Stretching my wings
Yet I remember I am sitting
Yet I know, I am trapped at my place
My thoughts ignoring me
As I come to terms with the reality
Translating what is not
And I realize, that I am only sitting
To my sweet Wilmington, N.C. I miss the cobblestone streets and The long days on the beach, from all the home brews and delicious places to eat. It’s where I found myself and I hold that dearly to my heart, you’ll always be my home away from home. Take me down to Cape Fear where the art and music never ceases to amaze,