24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
This special sauce ain’t as good as it ought to be
So let us add cheese, please, for culinary steez
And because it’s the bee’s knees
Chesterton may have had a point, but the silence
Re: fermented dairy, is by no means an intentional
Omission, or derision, of a most satisfying treat
Sandwich or salad, I’m glad to write ballads
In praise of such a versatile thing to eat
I want you to listen.
No, I mean really listen.
Like gather around the campfire
And let’s talk about our deepest pains
Listen while we crack our
Hearts open on the page and
Give you a tour around the shadows
Listen as we dig up the
Old bones of our past hurts,
Secrets we’ve never dared to
Utter to anyone else.
Karambit
Curved thing cuts better than a straight out thing
anyway this is how I rationalize my purchase
and tell my date why I carry a weird fucking knife on my belt
A concealed carry pistol she would have been able to handle better
even one that was like on the hip in a holster
had I been wearing Oakley wraparounds and a ‘come and take it’ shirt
But no here’s her date
murder blade on the belt
talking about its use in Indonesia and shit
Tiger claw he says
more like compensation
This is scary, he’s scary
I’m scary
Home is becoming unstuck
When we get to be awestruck
Sweet-hope home is through the door
Not a place, love we adore
My journey began and ended with a tanaga. I wrote 28 poems, with a detour when I inadvertently cheated by posting a few poems before I took a nap. I rewrote them, so I could say I did it properly. It was a great experience! I’ll look forward to reading more poems over the next few days.
When I was little, I never got in trouble like the other kids in school. I wasn’t mouthy, I did my homework. But the teachers still had a pet peeve with me just the same. I read too much, and I read above where I was supposed to be. Imagine being told by a teacher that going above and beyond, enjoying learning – is a Bad Thing. I was six years old. I still never took my head out of a book. When they shoved “age-appropriate” books at me, I just read three in the time I should’ve read one. Reading was a form of escapism for me and even if they didn’t understand, they weren’t going to take it away. So I was only six years old when I realized that our school system is not about the joys of learning, but instead focuses only on conformity.
“Books were always safer than people anyway” – Neil Gaiman
Home is not a place.
Home is a time.
Home is that time of the night
Where you can feel the whole world breathing
And the darkness is vast
And smooths the creases in the daylight world;
Softens the noises.
We are all the same place in darkness.
Or
Home is not a place.
Home is a person.
Home is sitting on a sofa in the twilight
With my brother, discussing Doctor Who.
Home was where he hugged me in the playground
When a teacher was mean, and we were small.
Home is when I see him again.
And
Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is sitting in the passenger seat of my mum’s car
Putting the world to rights as she drives us… wherever.
Home was when she took us to the library van
Or picked us up from school.
Home is whenever I can call my mum.
And
Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is holding my dad’s hand through the streets of Oslo.
Home is when he took me sledging, with my toes packed into boots.
Home is when he came to see me when I was grieving,
And called me his little one again.
Home is whenever we can catch up.
And
Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is my partner’s eyes when he’s excited;
Home is in the gentleness of our evenings, in the quiet times, and the endless hugs.
Home is the starlight that we share in our hearts
And the promises and welcome that we hold.
Home is whenever we are together.
And
Home is yet more people.
Home is my cat, the best cat in the world, who sometimes still feels nearby.
Home is the bright-bedecked crowd that I dance with.
Home is the childhood friends that still love me.
Home is wherever I can give my old teddy bear a hug.
Home is my Nan and my Grandpa,
And the deeply kind magic they create.
Home is my Grandma
No-nonsense, in blouses, who might take the world on and win.
Home is my Grandpa
And the memory boardgames, and tomatoes in a sunny garden.
The best thing is, my home is not fractured.
My home is unnumbered and abounding.
……….Home
A southern marsh, all green and brown
Is the place we call our own
Our first, most restful home.
Here we were hatched,fledged and taught
Here we sported, played, mock-fought
With other nestlings.
Wingtip to wingtip we filled the sky
Exulting as we learned to fly.
Over that reed-filled marsh.
Nowhere on earth is quite the same
As the marsh where I was born
It calls to me, it cradles me
Away, I feel forlorn.
Here, we attend annual gathers,
Though older and wearing different feathers
These are the friends from long ago
I’ll never forget.
Black cormorants, their wings outspread
To dry,
Waiting for the sun to rise overhead.
Elegant grey-suited cranes, red crowned
Dancing their way across the ground.
Demure kingfishers with orange beaks
Suddenly becoming bright blue streaks
As they swoop and fish.
The harsh summer sun drives us far away
We fly throughout the night and day
To cooler climes and snow-melt streams
But there,
Pre-winter storms bring on the dreams.
Of southern skies, of marsh and reed
Red crabs, shell- fish, the best of feed,
The marsh calls me with its siren song
I join my flock, a thousand strong.
Flying high, calling in clear, high, tones-
Our brains hard wired to magnetic zones
As we arrow South.
We elude the winter, evade the hunter,
Migrating, soaring, on and on
Returning to the reed-marsh where we were born.
Forest, fireflies, fairies-all start with letter f
and make us dream even in broad daylight!
What is so unique about nature?
How does she always manage to surprise?
I am a dream,
Dream of a soul to have a life.
I am patience,
Patience to live until I die.
I am anger,
Anger that brings change and fly.
I am honour,
Honour of being proud to be me and mine.
I am sorrow,
Sorrow that brings hope in life.
I am life,
Life with emotions, truths and lie….