24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Everyday –
I make a humble entreaty
With bowed head, I supplicate the Lord.
A brisk walk is part of my morning routine.
Besides the practice of keeping myself
And my surroundings tidy.
My office is on the top floor near the traffic in the capital city.
The function of my seat is two-fold:
To communicate to clients and to drive valuable insights.
She’s my new routine at work
Noche
she has me trained
Sweet black kitty girl
Medianoche midnight
She’s trained me
to watch her jump up onto the table
trained me to offer my arm as she leaps onto the seat beside me
the seatback behind me
She’s trained me to allow
her to be trusting
slowly
but make a change to the routine
and
spook
Menage a trois died,
Along with baby inside,
Drunken father’s hell.
In a moment fell,
Birthing pool, two concussions,
Born into the depths.
As his gentleman,
Rose and staggered from the room,
He entered, eyes blown.
Beneath the warm water,
Four arms and four legs crisscross,
Devoid of all breath.
The room’s dim light sight,
Lighthouse summons back with truth,
And Rachnoc awaits.
A little line here,
Another line there,
A bit of nap,
A bunch of prayer,
All jumbled ‘round
the ticking clock-bomb,
to conquer the Poetry Marathon.
seemingly centered
plausibly relaxed
surrounded
by hard earth
darkness encroaching
waiting to engage the world
she sat
with her legs crossed
peering into the depths
of the future
Yoga, meditation, too
my body needs you
hands touch the floor
stretch my brain into four
so it can think more
hour twenty is here
this ritual I hold dear
I stretch my hands high
for a metaphor of sky
then jump up three times
to catch some more rhymes
four more squats
turn my words hot
down dog pose I do
thus onomatopoeia, too
when poem is through
a tree pose is due
then bed, I heart you.
– Sandra Johnson, 9-3-2023
Resting my head
on my pillow brings me so much joy
opening drawers to reveal
many private things
Mornings set the tone of the day, and patterns comfort the mind
that seeks rhythm, meter, color schemes, and conspiracies.
I rise and evacuate in the lavatory across the hall as I shed sleep.
Pulling out the copper wishbone, I rinse and scrape my tongue, then
place a half teaspoon of coconut oil between my lips and swish.
With ballooned cheeks and taut jaw, I prepare the kitchen table:
half lemon, hot water, coffee, gluten-free bread, half an avocado,
garlic salt, knife, multi vitamin, cranberry juice pill, and probiotics.
And while the bread toasts, I scoop a cup of kibble for eager Artemis
(the other one stays under the bed until a decent hour for rising), and
grab a little garlic salt to sprinkle atop the avocado on toast, squeeze
lemon in hot water, spit out the oil, brush my teeth, swallow my pills,
cream the avocado on toast, and sip my coffee to the crunching jaws
and wagging tail, slapping the cabinet doors, as I play word games on
my phone, read news, messages from the universe, and check my
morning emails before setting off downstairs to open the back door
for the awaiting kitty cat, then hit the bath, where I practice pranayama,
meditate, stretch, dress, and write the morning gratitude for the day.
Dinacharya, life rituals order my mornings, no matter how the
remaining hours unravel in the frayed edges of orderly chaos.
.