24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
A 100 years ago, 5 generations
Of broken, shredded, bloodied veils,
Leaving hope in their trails
My mother, my grandmother,
Her mother, her grandmother,
And another, that we no longer remember,
In embers of my dreams,
I see her sometimes
It rhymes
Our suffering
The unwavering, unending flow of time
Ties me to their crimes
Decade to decade we clip the thorns
Slip the wings
On to the next one
After me,
She will fly.
It’s summer now
but I’ll tell you about Spring
Spring
that rambunctious little elf
thought it should flounce around
and act like summer.
Boiling hot
Wind whipping breezes that
Knock you sideways
people with blistering faces
and stirred up mad.
I was glad
when summer arrived
calm and stately
with a little rain and cooler mornings
Pretending to be nice
and then
then
summer thought it should
make up for lost time
and to show Spring how being Summer
was done
sidewalks melted
and even the sun wore sunglasses.
Not my wish to be here,
guess what? Here I am without my intention
so I crave for where I left to be here.
If coming is for me to choose,
I doubt If I’d be around here.
I’m here already, what is done can’t be undone.
He that sent me has confidence in me for the assignment set before,
so I have to be at my assignment
before I hear my last crow.
No escaping, yeah sure
and I don’t wish to be here one more time.
Thus, I have to be at my assignment day and night
knowing that once I’m done, no coming back for any reason.
the end of my twenties looms ahead like a finely carved clock
another upright tower chiming with certain destruction and liberation
I blink twice and suddenly I am running late
my relationship with time remains complicated
despite my efforts to change
I still bite off more than I can chew so that I’m seen as agreeable
self worth deeply rooted in how much I can give
I’ve gift wrapped years of my life
believing sacrifice would become painless
if adorned with the right bow
growth only comes in sets of two
I know that I can’t find it separate from discomfort
lightning crashes and clears the rot so that another tree may live
I’m learning to forgive the storms
and welcome what comes after
my hours vanish into the burnout dimension
I will never be this young again even now I am older
there is an imagined squandering of potential
that suggests every wasted second leads me to depletion
every season leads to a decrease in value or novelty
I remember the letter you wrote when you said to “keep on living – live for me”
resilience hasn’t been easy to achieve and frequently
I can’t bring myself to see the hands moving
the pendulum swinging
the dispassionate face
but I have promises to keep
and I am better with promises than time
Old, broken, and dilapidated.
Once upon a time,
producing beautiful music.
Now just a run down
memory of a past time.
A time long lost
and forgotten.
Barely a glimpse
of better times.
Left behind to
rot away to nothing.
All alone.
There’s a mannequin
at the old piano in the woods between
your house and Jenny Finnegan’s
and it’s warped and ruined
and full of leaves
But the naked
former window model
without any legs to
control the pedals of the
mangled upright:
the soft
the sostenuto
and sustain – all
damper than they should be –
knows no better, you say
You’re wrong, Jenny tells you,
‘Look at her,’ she says,
all freckles and fascination.
’She knows that
broken things can still be beautiful,
she knows it better than most.’
You think about that mannequin
when you can’t sleep that night
mind all abuzz in
Jenny Finnegan’s wake.
Have you seen John Cazale’s Wyoming,
a play about a scandal that would presage the rest of the 20th
and, thus far, most of the 21st century’s preoccupation
with raping the land for greed?
We have a minute before the show starts,
and need to make room for the actor
playing Albert B. Fall to find his
seat in the house.
No one who props “gate” next to a news story
to indicate malfeasance, proven or not,
ever uses “dome,” but why not?
The past is just the alpha present.
It was our predecessors workshopping the outlines
we’d use later on unheard-of platforms.
Did soda jerks know
their moneymaker would be the
meme of their day
if there were memes in 1922?
Black lava expanse
Miles to reach the sand and sea
Sun forces u-turn
Step Right Up! Step Right Up! Ladies and Gents.
The tour will begin soon for you lovely Ladies and Gents.
This brave new world of 2122 promises to bring you shudders of delight.
Notice the beauties!
Bobbed hair, bared knees and shoulders, lips painted just right, just right, just right, just right, but still no rights.
Oh yes, you have the vote. So go ahead and be sure to vote dear little ladies.
health care, credit, jobs, and children remain under the domain of husbands and your politicians
Yet still, vote, little ladies. Your Charleston plays on and on. . . .Step Right Up!
Sail down this river with me.
Fordland’s rubber empire has been de-rusted and polished.
Marvel at our space-age assembly in this cleared Amazon forest.
True, we don’t need to see those who live behind the factories.
After all, poverty is such an ugly plight.
All is right, right, right and humming in this tropical Brazilian night.
Sway to the beats of the Brazilian Samba as we dance through the night.
Step Right Up! Step Right Up!
What fun we’ll have as we wander into those naughty neighborhoods.
We will dance to the Darktown Strutters Ball, delight in exotic Oriental and Egyptian smokes.
indulge in all that is outlawed and expensive. Your needs are settled for today, just today.
We just clear away debris and make everything shine for you so it seems right, right, right.
Step right up, Little Ladies.
Step right up.
You never met your father’s grandfather
but you know him through evening tales
you know him in songs of him
you know that he is the first generation of pride
When your father tells your history
he tells you to hit your chest and say-
“I am Adannaya, the fourth generation of pride”
every one of us has it running in our veins
we bear a proud name
you see-
the father of my great grandfather was the first son of a rich man
like light that attracts moth, wealth attracts envy
in his riches he was open to death attempts
swaggering round the village after the birth of his heir
he recognised envy when he saw it mirrored in people’s faces
that is how we got our family name
Akungala, proud wealth
In a hundred years
three generations or four might have come through me
carrying the weight of the name
pride flowing in their veins
amassing the wealth of a thousand people
may they swagger as they walk
may their shoulders be lifted up in their gait
may they flow on riches
just like him