24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
cheeks as soft as a silken breeze
fingers as gentle as the gaze of a doe
lips as red as the rose of a lover
hair as lustrous as a luminous pearl
And yet :
eyes so fiery
a mind so sharp
a mouth so tart
with words oh so smart
a heart full of love
a head full of dreams
a smile full off sunshine
and arms full of cuddles and hugs
you are brimming with anger
over flowing with righteousness
My Sweet Sour Cupcake
Oh Yes, I got it all right.
Water an orris and so it grows
While the petals wilt on a forgotten rose
Left alone the cold wind blows
He cries a tear and no one knows
The mountains sing to the starry sky
Tonight turns to day in a matter of time
So fades the nights rythm and rhyme
Today has no mountain for him to climb
Looking at the ocean he sees
How calm the commotion could be
Still the waves crash up and down
As they thrash against the bow
His choice to stay ashore has past forever
As so her storm must be weathered
He must choose to dance her tide
If he is to see her peaceful side
Answering his hopes with never
She claims his vessel forever
Leaving him every sense of purpose denied
To swim in this ocean he cried
Prompt: If I could make one thing vanish forever, it would be < this is a prompt from the teal version of Burn after Writing
Poem 10:
If everything could last despite
the absence of Time – I wonder
what kind of world we would be
living in if Father Time simply
decided to be no more. Would
that mean the end of dementia
or rather the end of everything.
“paint on your hands”
Poem 10 take 2:
With paint on your hands
we are crowded beneath
the things you create and
the versions of people we
have always wanted to be,
but never figured out how
to actually become. Darling,
you and I have always been
the better parts of each other
but this – this is too beautiful
not to share with the world.
-M. Rene’
Sincerelybluejay poetry
His tomato plants teach me how to love him, even in his absence. I have been collecting my father for years. Pieces of him. But the tomato seeds, he sent in a fold of paper, taped together like a tiny envelope with the seeds tucked in the pocket.
The seeds I gave over to my husband, so he could bury them in the soil. And now I resent him for taking them from me. But he’s the gardener in our house.
My seeds, the ones I bought at the nursery remain in packets. Sometimes, I spill a few on my desk, just to examine their hard outer shell, the ridges and seams. I try to imagine the plant breaking out of it.
I wonder, too, how much time my father has left, with the cancer growing in the soft sack they call a lung. On an anatomy chart shows that inside they have branches with sprigs at their ends.
Today, one of my father’s tomato seeds sprouted, a tender leaf reaching from rich black soil.
I raised a Monarch butterfly as a child,
filled a jar with milkweed until
the caterpillar created its chrysalis and
one day the beautiful orange winged creature emerged.
I held up my hand
and my butterfly flew
up and up and away
to freedom.
I dream of my own journeys, my own freedoms,
of wandering rivers and forests
and meadows filled with yellow wildflowers.
I dream of traipsing through woodland creeks
and hiking to waterfalls.
I dream of a cabin in the woods
that can be reached only by walking a good hour.
And here the butterflies flutter beautifully and
the blue jays fill the sky.
A friend from elementary school through high school and beyond calls me.
She’s back in our home town, showing her adult children our old neighborhood. Do I remember my old house number?
A short time later I’m looking at a minutes-old digital photo of the house I grew up in. It looks very much the same.
A slightly darker shade of gray.
A low chain-link fence and a hedge next to the sidewalk. That is the only major change, and it neither improves or detracts from the way it looks in old photos.
I’ve written poems about this house.
I’ve dreamed about it. Wondered about some of my memories, with no one left to ask for corroboration.
It’s so small!
The house hasn’t been “improved,” added to, changed much at all. Yet I get a sense that it is well-cared for, and loved.
This thrills me, more than I ever would have imagined.
My parents told me to find a better job.
I chose to nod then ignore. I’m happy,
can’t they see? There is purpose found
within the neat confines of my work.
“Make a difference in the world”
is typed below my senior year
photo. Kept it vague on purpose.
Nothing remains in place
but for the joy found
when looking at the world
and stating, “I strive to
make you better”.
Wheel of Fortune
Eagle soars the unclouded cerulean sky
spotting field mice, rabbit, and the neighborhood cat
sunning or scampering in the open field.
I must hunt for my babies, as you must hunt for yours she cries.
the cashew cheese you have adapted delights and fills your children’s bellies,
with no life taken.
what choice have I?exclaims eagle
as she snatches rabbit to the sky.
A breath to great trepidation,
the watch point arrived.
She took things in through the chest,
smiling among the wreckage.
My time in dwindling smoke arrived,
beginning above ruffled eyes–
Coffee and a signature made my way,
through disjointed movements, a
self-conscious glance at a human.
Speedy
Speedy Gonzalez loves to run and play
He is always first to laugh
But what he loves best in all the world
Is playing tag with Jerome the giraffe
Jerome’s long legs take him far
He loves to hide in the trees
Speedy is short yet runs so fast
When he walks he looks like John Cleese
His big dark eyes and gentle smile
Hide a mischievous mind
Speedy Gonzalez only has three toes
That sloth is one of a kind
(Prompt: Personify an animal. Switch its trait. Example: a disinterested lion, a polite gorilla, an aggressive giraffe…)