24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
“You need to love yourself more”
My heart whispers to my body
While my hand is still typing
While my eyes are getting red
While my mind is stressing
I can’t listen to my heart
I keep working
I am getting insane
Depression is coming
My mind and heart are fighting
Then the heart wins
I colapse,
I should’ve listened,
I need to be quiet, now I am quiet.
BLUES BUELLERS
how often does the train come by?
headlamp glinting off a silver moon river
sign slow blinking red-red-red for the ATV idiots
chugging slow low rolling steel wheel thunder
through the stricken trees along electric lake
I come crunching dark gravel pebbles in lieu of homework
static starlight tangled in the street lamps
craving early ice cream frozen hillside rural suburbia
it’s sleepy here and the shops are long since closed
listen with a loving heart and become another radio
open source airwaves by the cover of another night
blues belushi doesn’t notice the train or any relative silence
even streaking with the lights and roar neither do I anymore
wandering and watching jealous of an unalterable destination
Clever man plays God.
Makes another like himself.
Terrible idea.
© 2021 S Phua
The Moon, full, and pumpkin bright,
glares through my window blinds tonight,
searching past my window pane,
some hidden truth to ascertain,
of keeping nightbourne hours well—
a secret kept and cannot tell—
and pay no homage to the gibbous god
of rest; from tilling of the sod,
from to and frow at tidal whim,
rendering a slave of him.
Jealous of these night-owl words,
he pokes the blinds with golden swords,
seeks entry to my poet’s world—
my freedom from the daylight lords—
whereon the page, his piercing falls,
caressing words. The night-owl calls.
Moon-feathered light, the winged-words fly,
to distant stars in the glistening sky;
my page bereft of captive thought.
Unchained ideas, no longer caught.
The granite sky, he drinks like ale,
and drains the night, then morning pale
refills the goblet with sparkling wine,
as sunlight limbos through the blinds—
drawn tight from dusk until dawn intrudes—
dulling, once more, Me and Moon.
The words, full-weight, fall back to earth,
to slumber on their parchment berth,
where pen and patter of moon-kissed verse
may yet recapture the golden words.
If a candies tree appear,
If it grows candy cane.
Red for blood,
White for pure milk.
Branches are covered with chocolate cream.
Golden bell on the top of the tree.
Shimmery honey makes the tree shine.
And Puffy cotton candy spread here and there.
Cloud shape cotton candy,
Taste like a pink milk,
Colourful lollipop here and there.
Pop pop lollipop.
Lick lick tasty pop.
The sour balls and gummy bears like Jimmy Jam,
Jolly rancher lollipop blast like a bomb.
The slimy creams come out.
And, the ginger bread man smile from,
The candy makes more enjoyable
I want to be missed if I went away
Not to die but no longer seen to play
I want people that live on my street
To be aware that we no longer meet
For social media to notice I’ve gone
That I never post a reply to anyone
I don’t want to drop out undetected
To hide away no longer connected
I want to be seen to be right here
I want the world to know and care
Chalices
Trumpet vines in the church gardens,
a halo of orange over the St Francis statue
where I converse with Dad on Sundays and
Holy Days. Birds hover on the fence, wait
to bless themselves in the font below the
Saint’s feet. Cabbage white butterflies
flit from trumpet to trumpet, collecting
their sacrament of nectar.
Light breezes carry the voice of angels
humming a choir of hymns, their wings
ruffle leaflets of rose bushes burgeoning
heavy heads of blooms; they bow under
their own weight, kneel to scatter velvet
petals to an altar of impatiens below.
A butterfly, feet sticky with pollen,
lands in the chalice of St Francis’ hand,
wings beat a slow hallelujah, graceful
takeoff, visitations to all the blossoms.
I chuckle, look up to heaven, tell my dad
his gardening skills have improved,
the flowers are breathtaking, the birds,
bees, and butterflies languish in gratitude.
I feel his soft reply on my cheek, barely
felt, but I know his hands held mine,
clasped in prayer.
~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 20
“Making the rounds?” I asked the figure in the corner of the bar
All black-leather-jacket-and-straight-cut-jeans –
It was the sunken eyeballs that gave him away
I knew he was Death by his walk; he didn’t need the scythe
With a smile like that, with teeth like that,
And he just nodded to me, waiting patiently in the corner
“What brings you out here?” I asked, and he levelled his eyes
One of those “Mind yer own damn business” kinda glares
But politely enough he replied “Work,” and grinned a bit larger
The sort of grin that indicated he was either an assassin
Or some kind of general contractor… perhaps, I thought,
My imagination was getting away from me
“I’m a sort of end-of-life support worker,” he said
Without being prompted or pried at, and I nodded –
Tendrils of smoke rose from his cigarette, which he ashed
And looking at me said “Say, I’m lookin’ for someone,”
He held up a picture of me at a family function
And his grin went ear-to-ear
I stride freely, swing my arms high,
Breathe deeply, wave at Orion in the sky.
The road is clean and clear, no traffic snarls
No blaring horns, only a barn owl’s calls.
The dust has dettled, the smog is gone,
The beribboned roads lead me on.
The highways are shining coloured bands–
The city uses to greet, shake hands
With the suburbs.
Once a lone truck trundles by
Then I’m alone again with thr earth and sky.
“Cruel Trick”
The most brilliant misconception out there is the idea that you need ANYTHING other than to be your truest self.
To live your life as anything other than authentically you.