24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Two years without a drink …
a legal drink.
Two years of ear-to-the-ground
scrounging
for satisfaction.
Two years of watching criminals
make a killing.
Financial killing.
Bloody killing.
Two years since the government
passed judgment on me,
branded me immoral,
removed my choice.
Oh, Lord, bring me back 100 years from now
to 2022
to a reborn America
to freedom of choice.
If things have not changed by then, Lord,
at least let me have a legal drink.
magpies outsmart
the scientists —
their mates
remove those pesky
radio transmitters
electric lights
turn on and off
as Siri responds
to an African gray parrot —
what makes us human
the cockatoo
raises his sulfur crest
while harassing
an unflappable kookaburra
until he finally flies
Vibrant, oh vividly, startlingly pink!
Or perhaps purple, or fuchsia, or maroon, I think?
Whatever shade it may be, the girlish child in me,
Delights in this absurdly bright pinkish tree!
Such silly, frolicking, fabulous fun
Could take place here, shaded from the sun.
Under the scattered rays tinted a rosy hue,
We will sip ciders and praise this glorious view.
I want to dance to this song
with the one who wooed my heart
who knows,
perhaps, but my mind was blinded in its folly
reason not fully understanding
illusion it could be
dilution of the senses
decision of one’s worth
my worth
a battle of three worlds – of three words
I miss you
Dear Anwar, a letter in prose
to you I do compose.
By chance I stumbled across on Amazon,
an anthology of a Poetry Marathon.
In amazement, I did discover ,
a poem, by yourself in between such cover.
I am pleased to see
that you have discovered a love for Poetry.
However some rules you have discarded,
which could make your poems retarded.
Have I not taught you to use a simile,
words that flow like the sea.
Scratching of the pen on a paper
is best described as an onomatopeia.
Should you need more lessons
Please do contact me
And I will help you improve
your Poetry.
I miss you…
I know…
Why did you leave so early?
I didn’t. I left right
when I was intended to.
I still needed you.
Still need you.
I am not far.
I will not ever be far.
Deep down I know that.
Good it’s the truth.
I will always be with you.
How do I communicate
with you?
You know the answers
to all the questions.
You know more than you
think you do.
Do I?
Yes, you have
always known.
You just needed
encouragement.
I suppose that
is true.
I still miss
our talks.
I miss them too.
We are talking now.
In a manner of
speaking I guess.
I better go for now.
I am sure we will
talk again soon.
I hope so.
Pinky Promises
Well, hey there, Stefanie! I know we’ve been out of touch for a while now, but I occasionally see your face pop up when you’ve been tagged by some of our mutual acquaintances. When it does, my heart bleeds.
I’m going to be honest here. It’s hard, so please forgive me if my words don’t come out right. Not to be honest overall, but–to be honest with you. You are the type of person who demands honesty, and, frankly, it scares me. Which is part of why I stopped being in your world. We don’t see eye to eye on certain things, and–unfortunately for our once wonderful friendship–those things mean more to me than you did. How’s that for honesty?
I’m not trying to be mean here. You deserve an explanation for why I bolted. You were a true friend to me, and I still think of those car rides to Charlotte when we bared our souls to each other. When I see Tom’s Barbeque Chips, I remember how you bought me a bag and opened it from the bottom, telling me the best chips were always found there. You knew I had OCD and that this drove me crazy, but you risked it because you are such a funny girl.
I miss you. I see you on Facebook; see your books around the local bookstores. I look for posts from the writing group and upcoming events you all might be sponsoring or participating in. Those were some great times and I miss being a part of them. Sometimes I think about coming back, but…
…but how would you react? I mean, I made you a promise, and I failed to keep it. Would you give me a second chance? Would you allow me the opportunity–the privilege–of loving you again? Or would our conflicts separate us again?
You really are a lovely person, Stef. Dare I find out? Can I let go of my pride and love the whole of you without always liking those parts that made me leave to begin with? Are we worth another chance, as Barry Manilow sings that song right now about being ready? Am I ready to take a chance again? What have I to lose? What have I to gain?
Silly me. Of course you would welcome me back. Probably you’d say something cute, like, “Hey, Love! Turn around a moment.” Puzzled, I would acquiesce, and then you’d say, “It’s so good to see you’re back.” (You do love those double-entendres, don’t you, Stef?) Then you’d laugh, I’d laugh, and the air would be clear, just like that.
The chances are good that we wouldn’t even speak of this long break because I know you, Stefanie. I know you. I know you still love me, that you didn’t stop, and that you’ve been hoping for this–even though I didn’t return your calls or respond to your messages. I know you, Stefanie. I know your hopeful heart is waiting for one move, one gesture from me. What I don’t know is if I can make it.
Oh, heart! I want to! I miss you so much! And the stories we have to tell one another are enough to involve many more trips to Charlotte, the waterfall you once took me to, or just over twenty or more dates.
In closing, don’t give up on me. I don’t think I am ready just yet, but…I implore you: don’t give up on me. What? You haven’t? I assumed as much.
Thank you, Stefanie.
Soon…
She doesn’t get a birthday party.
No one’s sure of the year, much less the day.
What she gets are regular meals,
treats, heart worm meds,
belly rubs, and an occasional bath.
A year and a half in, she’s still nervous
at dinner time, sits at my feet as I measure kibble,
break an egg, spoon out canned meat.
Nike’s been here long enough not to worry.
She’s never missed a meal. Big sister knows
there are two bowls of food, enough
for them both. Maybe someday,
Sally will quit worrying, too.
She seems to know we won’t hurt her,
even when we drag her to the vet.
She doesn’t like shots, but they’re over fast,
not like the pain of a bullet wound, two of them,
courtesy her former owner,
wounds that have healed on the outside,
but still cause her to limp.
Sally’s past stays with her, but her present
is pleasant. She can go out and come back in,
even when she’s been in the creek.
She has her own bed. She belongs.
We love her.
She loves us back.
Enter the long-abandoned house
and you might feel an urge
to run. As if you had invaded
a sacred space.
Outer rooms are a disaster of dust and mouse droppings.
The inner room is like a pyramid of preservation.
The odor, like decaying cheddar cheese, slaps your nose,
you remember that mummies had no brains.
The sight of oak hardback chairs with
carefully cushioned seat covers,
each donned with fading sunflowers
assails your eyes.
The previous occupant had abandoned a tan, suede satchel
full of knitting needles, Propped precariously
on the floor near abandoned wine.
How do we find the balance of words between I
we and they so we are able to hear
all of the vowels and consonants the
voices vying for our attention in this world
are making to keep us from sobbing
in despair so we can ground ourselves like
an ancient bristlecone pine rooted in a
hostile environment that seems foreign
and yet is embedded in our own language