24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Humility and Arrogance
The humble sunflower gaily flutters
in a space quiet and shady
under the bulky oak tree
overlooking the pavement
The arrogant landlord
knitting brows
holds an empty wine glass
as ransom
Hour 5
@varenyas
Time and Forgetting
Felt the sting / drag / last cigarette / back / throat / drowning / the alcohol on their breath / clinging reality / smash my fist / colors / reminder / blushed cheeks / dull ache / night alone / curled up / without you / empty bed / no more memories / cloud my head /
A valley of sunflowers
Looking like a field
Of melted cheddar cheese
Wine glass in my hand
I embody this space
Lounging underneath
The great oak
Meditating on the fact
That the last thing we lose…
…is hope
Satchel in hand
I continue this walk
With a heart full of faith
And the spirit of God.
~Rebeli
Rapunzel they called him, Rapunzel he was,
A prince to some, a common son of a baker to others
But they never asked him where he came from.
His golden locks were too distracting,
His soft features confusing
He often sent suitors weeping when they saw he was a guy.
Though they did not know that he was just as cruel as Mother
They thought him a fair waif, a wastrel, though he knew not why
They never saw him as he was, a man with a heart of stone.
Instead abandoning him there, They left him all alone
And when Dame Gothel died
To only Rapunzel’s surprise
No one came to free him. So he stayed within the tower
Right where they left him
And wasted away
The vines came and claimed him, and no one knew why
The sky turned forever grey.
For Rapunzel was Sunlight, love, and warmth were his domain
But from the neglect of others, they could never be the same.
Alone in the darkness, even the sun will go out
Not taught how to love, his heart festered fear and doubt
So let that be a lesson
To treat all with kindness
And judge not by looks or strangeness
Don’t leave your Rapunzel in the tower to rot away
Free them, love them, help them today.
A mirror is hanging on there.
There are so many strings.
There are so many thorns.
All are ready to grasp lively art.
What’s in your mind?
You’re searching and searching-
Yet can’t find out.
Where is the reflection of mind?
Look at there carefully-
What can you see?
Such a Whitish aura of azure’s hub.
Will you love?
Will you nourish this in deepest mind?
That is your dreamy reflection.
Surroundings can’t permit you,
To capture easily your goal.
Don’t be panic.
Don’t be disappointed.
Dreams have wings.
Help you to be bold,
To hold tightly,
For achieving goal.
if you were a song
you would echo through concert halls
permeate every anhedonic state
richly vibrate between the seats
and wet lashes
you’d bring them to their feet
the way you brought me to my knees
if you grew from the earth
your colors would shame sunsets
send them paled in comparison
as you spread vivid and hypnotic
cover every inch of skin
they would roll themselves across you
the way that I once did
if you were a painting
you would be the one I never finished
not for lack of trying
I just couldn’t find the shades
that felt adequate or fitting
you’d hang in a gallery for them to adulate
the way I never did enough
The back garden has always been my safe haven.
Deep within the pages of a brilliant book I pause
between chapters, taking a sip of my cuppa, and
reflecting upon the simple pleasures within this
treasured space:
A gentle sunflower sprouts up, the first of the
season and eager to kiss the sun.
The grass would not appease the bylaw officers,
dancing with the gentle breeze.
No pavement in sight, as it should be, I reach
the worn out deck
where memories have stomped on its surface.
At the BBQ I requested
extra cheddar cheese on my burger, always
granted to keep my belly full.
The ashtrays are now absent, certainly best, I can
remember them full.
Lastly, I spot the mighty oak in the far left corner,
always a constant.
Eventually I get back to my book, but never
hesitate to allow my senses to wander around.
They came out of the shack that stood at the dip of the draw.
Albert first, though he grumbled about going to school at 15,
then Benjamin, named for her brother who’d died in the war,
and Caroline, who had green eyes that strangers noticed,
Dancing Deborah as she liked to be called, followed,
then Edward, for her husband’s pa who’d died at the bottom of the mine
and Frank, who liked to play dress up and hid an old baby doll.
She stood at the end of the line and held squirming Georgia
with one hand on the swell of her belly.
The postmistress took the picture which would hang on the wall
by Christmas.
In the world of the wealthy pavements are plated in gold,
No one intrudes into another’s space
And there’s time to admire the sunflower.
On the other side of the class divide, garbage heaps adorn the streets,
Everyone bumps into everyone
And fights with stones and nails are a sacred ritual as they struggle to maintain an equilibrium of backwardness.
In that cocoon of affluence where the rich converge to dine,
Wine glasses are of the most exquisite and tasteful kind.
But the poor are out there in their arena of poverty jostling over the leftovers abandoned by the menacing dogs of the wealthy.
In the world of the rich the code is to keep raising the equilibrium point of success.