24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
THE PIANO . . . MANN-E-QUIN
He’s listening.
Hands at his side.
The piano plays – for him.
Only him.
It’s been over 100 years.
He stays and listens.
Through storms.
And fine weather.
Who knows him?
Who will remember?
He and the piano.
Forever.
Shades of memory
play on in my mind,
some a mere shadow
of thought still lingering,
faint reminders of past
echoing on
in the haunted corridors
of a waking dream
2122 (Hour Four)
Is it true there once were elephants?
And they roamed … just… freely?
How could it be? Where could they fit?
The book says they were huge –
What could they possibly find to eat?
Is it true there once was honey?
Made by bees, as part of their bee-ing?
What was its taste? It looks sticky,
And rich, and … luscious.
How could bees make such a thing?
Is it true there once was freedom?
And people could choose how to live?
I read it was only fleeting,
A passing moment in time,
A mistake, really, no doubt.
How else could it have been?
Write a poem set a hundred years ago, or a hundred years from now.
THE EYE IS A CITY OF STARS
even in my dreams it seems I’m wandering off
the beat or the trail or the railroad tracks as it were
one electric line along my being
brushing against the future
brimming with the past
what I resist heaps itself up in ordinariness
uncertain if there’s any help to be had about it
where the whispers of angels never make me certain
where pink trees in pink fields don’t strike me as odd or beautiful
or even Seussical, in spite of them absolutely being just so
where what is ordinarily overlooked becomes astonishing
when breath is caught, Existence does the catching
A monochrome view lies before me
of the month I most dread
Memories attack around every corner, and
I am forced to relive those
most treacherous pains
every year.
Every June.
As I force my way forward, I
try
to allow room for light.
I try to remind myself that there
is joy to be found, even
alongside the sorrow.
I reach out a hand
hoping to grab hold of some
inkling of hope,
to grip one moment
who might combat the pain
which I brace myself against.
Slowly,
infinitely slowly
I am starting to see light
But
in June
the black only hovers at a charcoal grey.
*In memory of David Tipton — June 13,2020
Played sweetly, wrap tucked tight
Noise dimmed
But sound present
Long gaze of mother’s eye.
Short flash of a fire flicker
Warming the room
Breathing hot life.
Same looks. Same wrap.
Same soft sound from tiny body.
Flickers from a screen
Blue light flooding
To otherwise dark spaces
Tempting mother’s eye
To creak open
Fighting back the gnaw of sleep
The dull ache
Not yet
Bit while baby rests
In her arms.
Across the centuries the picture varies
Only in small fractiles.
Light sources.
Sounds like sirens rather than beastly howls.
The picture the same.
But I wonder, future mother, great great granddaughter
Daughter in law
Woman yet to be.
As you rock and soothe
Surrounded by fake light and white noise
And endless talking screens
Woman
Will you have scraped past the trauma
I carry now and attempt to beat down
And toss for scrap
Devoured by any hungry passer-by.
Woman I fought, armed with therapy
Books
Meditation
Scented candles
Self care
All of it to keep the anxiety in my breast.
Not yours.
But I worry future woman.
That anxiety snuck
Crib to bed
Generation to generation
Sneaking and nibbling
Bits of confidence and joy.
I hope you sit.
Baby tucked
Having eloped from these fears. But if not,
Dear woman
Please.
Keep fighting.
Fight until the anxiety is tucked up tighter than the baby.
Fast asleep.
A hundred years ago
Women won the right to vote
White women, that is.
It was a start
But it was big, huge
Tremendous.
Yesterday rights
were stripped from us
Rights hard fought, hard won
Rights are tenable, tenuous
Because we are women
We are not allowed simple fights
We must claw, beg, cajole, demand, scream
We are born to hold a sign in protest
We fought for years
Just to have some backwards
white conservatives and
Uncle Clarence
Come for what we earned
This time, we will not
roll over,
even if it takes 100 years more
to achieve the rights
Others are granted at birth.
Trails of stones and rocks on this narrow path steep
Long pathway on up
No rope to hang onto
Dangerously
Water to drink
Low on food
But we will make it through
Many have gone this path years ago
Into the region and mountain tops in Egypt
An old billboard displayed
Mounted on a rock standing side ways
Rocks from ages
Bones of animals like humans smell strongly scented there on the ground
Way up on top of this mountain top
Runs river of water freely
Just to catch some in a cup
Hot climate where the tribes left there mark
Hills we must climb
Sits on top of one another stones together
Still we long for a way to come down and not be afraid to except it when morning comes
A rope line stuck
Cause its so hot you can’t even stop walking when the sun is scorchy golden yellow
I a child of Moses
With no time to waste here
Lets keep on
Until the end
Compus laddle all covered with dust
Flying horse flies you can see of
Dark black bugs flying all around us
The tale of something dead
Push the nail in
Right before Paul step
The long ways down
Jubilee tribes
He’s with us
You see
From the east
Just when the last dove flies over
Modestly dressed,
she only dreams of wearing less.
Her husband works and controls the money.
And she stays home and cooks and raises the children.
Her days are the same.
At dances, she looks at other women with longing.
Her youngest son beams up at her and her daughter takes her hand, bringing her back to the present.
Someday woman will have a voice and more rights.
Someday.
soft undergrowth pads the forest floor
sunlight, blocked by trees dapples my skin
warming a few inches at a time
an old house sits empty
untouched by human hands
vines creep up and through decaying walls
I have come home