24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Artists Salvaging Civilization
What are you knitting?
I’m knitting a nail to hold up the sky.
What are you drawing?
I’m drawing a wine glass to capture the sea.
What are you singing?
I’m singing a tune of pavements and curbs.
What are you cooking?
I’m cooking the remnants of social construct.
What are you weaving?
I’m weaving a satchel to collect up the ashes.
What are you writing?
I’m writing it down, so we can remember.
Connecting Random Words
Reading the latest hardback book.
Knitting Sunflowers.
Lovely to sit under the ancient shady oak tree.
Squirrels mutter as a they dash across
the steaming hot pavement.
Each squirrel is holding a wine glass in one hand
and a piece of cheddar cheese in the other.
Time to pack the stitchery book into my brand new Star Trek satchel
covered with tiny rockets blasting into space.
And past time to get my own wine glass
and join the squirrels.
If I do say so myself, i think i nailed this prompt.
Within the warm yellowed pages
Of a hardcover Sherlock Holmes
In the family library,
Nestles a brownish
Sunflower
Mellowed, wiser, ageing gracefully
Each passing day.
Hues of space,
Tints of rusted nails
And a flavour of oaks
Defines its presence,
For it is more imaginary than real,
Wine glasses scooped out of
Surreal topographical
Features.
Smeetha, responding to Prompt 5
there I sat,
under the oak,
knitting a sunflower,
taller than most,
whose stem was
a moonbeam,
stitched mostly
in stars,
when a satchel
of moondust
fell, smack,
down from Mars,
and spattered my work
with galaxy dust
and it rampantly rose,
as I’m sure it must,
gathering speed
as it grew,
out of control,
trailing my yarn,
into the night sky,
where it covered the moon
and fed the wild geese
as they passed on their way
to wherever geese go
A Hundred Years From Now
A hundred years from now I will be
burried in a forest or scattered in the sea
under a name I will have chosen
and that knowledge makes
leaving this world a little more okay.
Like the sunflower, he opens his heart
Please, do not pull it apart
Living in the present is difficult
That is life of the occult
As hard as hardback, it is hard to turn
Right or left, near or far
Please, make him stay today
It is a road that leads to ray
Life of knitting and sewing
Have made her finger nails not more than a dwarf
Nothing can make them longer and tender
Knitting have made them stronger and tender
He would prepare cheddar cheese soup
Serve with fine wine and flour
It is a delicacy she enjoys
It is what brings her joy
It is her space
Please, do not disturb her pace
It is not an issue of race
It is her place not to please
I pick up my satchel
And run my fingers
over the sunflower patch
That mother sewed on.
Headed for peace and wonder,
I hit the pavement
to search for my own space.
Under the Oak tree
Buried in a hardback
Pretending to be in the country
Beside a babbling brook.
Ignoring the city sounds
I escape my worries
Inside a foreign world
Of someone’s making.
Valkyrie Unbound (Valkyrie)
Flow of morphia abates, and the unbound does stand,
First time for a stranger, born callously to a new land.
Before the mirror I stretch, and absorb my new form,
A creature so profound that the vultures do swarm.
Sabbatical taken, but a new course this does warrant,
Reluctantly I scribe tales of immediate resignation,
Further surrendering your bleak will abhorrent,
A smug smirk and you post without hesitation.
Broken, monstrous psyche, driven to decisions naïve,
Broken, monstrous body, reflecting my spirit’s frayed weave.
Flow of morphia abates, and I take my clumsy stride,
Each stumble, forfeiture. Each fall, you defeat me,
My only Shangri-La: In your shadow I hide.
Perseverance, a necessity.
Broken, monstrous psyche, driven to the next liquidation,
Broken, monstrous body, reflecting new skill of extermination.
His possession,
His creature,
His plaything,
His weapon.
This is the tale of a street girl
Around 7 to 8 yrs old.
She is knitting her dress,
On the pavement, with a smiley face.
She is an orphan.
Still never forgets to smile.
She has a sunflower.
She is trying to sell that
Sitting on the hardback,
She is singing a song.
Who can buy this flower?
Who want to see sun’s smile?
A young lady is passing her.
She asks — Hello dear! how much?
The little girl says— only 20 taka.
That lady takes 100 taka from her satchel.
A window to the soul.
Home is where
happiness abides.
Inside you can
see family.
Gathered, sharing
time and stories.
Laughter, smiles, and
good times.
A window, a view port
into the contents inside.