24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
i rise before the sun, walking from pre dawn to sunrise
the sounds of wind and sea caresess my mind ready for the day
most of adult was spent mothering my brood of 7 pottering around
with pen on paper, as i neared the half centry mark, l found my way
back to my artistc roots, finger painting with clay, on rock
From the fog of war I fled,
Into this mist of sanctuary.
Escaping the dreaded known,
For the uncertain, unknown.
This new land offers just a moment’s respite,
A chill that comforts but yet,
The horrors of what I remember,
Will never leave me.
© 2021 S Phua
I am, at this moment, horizontal,
my skull rested upon the knee
of a boy I barely know and
might even be smitten with.
His worn leather couch is
cool against my skin, but
his heat soaks toward me
like sunbeams finding the pavement.
I wish there were sun,
wish it were morning,
when my thoughts are softer
with the persuasion of sleep.
But it is nighttime and
the taste of my coffee
burns at my tastebuds
while the game controller
clicks at his fingertips.
Next door, there is a party
droning on and the bass,
the bass radiates through
the ground, the hardwood floors,
these cushions, and into my chest.
I thank him for giving me the right
to know these things. And I
close my eyes to sleep.
Time travels through space In every way they want us to miss
Miss the train
miss Those who never left
misappropriate the moment or an intention
what is the point?
of spinning in or out when it’s all in every now?
because I thought it today doesn’t mean tomorrow it’s real
or saw it in the future and believed it now
what is it about time that has us all so enslaved?
listen the boss do what you’re told
fill up with nothings in the way to getting old
get on code or stay out of the fold
this moment is now and the next is now too
just because I said it doesn’t mean it’s true
Painted Soul
steamy beachy oceanside cliffs
with neverending waves in motion…
calm with a hint of trouble ahead
those soft amber blues…
misty memories with my warm heart
as an anchor through time…
Portrait of Me
I tried to paint a portrait
for you see
mirrors didn’t exist when I was alive
and now alas!
My reflection I can’t see.
So I ask my fellow ghouls
and witches that pass by sometimes
to tell me what they perceive
to help me conjure me.
One said my left fang is crooked
while another complimented my blood-red lips
a troll noticed a tiny mole
camouflaged under my dainty chin.
My eyes, said a poltergeist
were ‘darker than the depths of hell’
but he was drunk (they always are)
was being fresh, I could tell.
My nose is sharp ‘like a Madonna’
said a new recruit, (whatever does that mean?)
while a travelling siren told me
my eyelashes were ‘to die for’.
A Chupacabra said my skin was so pale
he wouldn’t feast on my blood on a bad day
and my neighbor, Wendigo simply
winked, ‘You’re perfect in every way.’
I collected these bits of information and
put together a picture
of a diligent, scary
yet mesmerizing beauty
to whom humans easily surrender.
I like to read and take
long glides across oceans
And I would never ever say no to
the Lily Death potion.
I have met many entities
that seem to tire of Earth
but I love my death here,
of entertainment there is no dearth.
If I have wetted your curiosity
and managed to spike your intrigue
Simply turn off your lights to know more
And call out softly to me.
I look into the mirror fair
And wonder at the white hair there.
Just a short day or two ago
My hair was brown with flecks of gold.
And these little crinkles around my eyes
Remind me of how fast time flies.
Around my lips my skin so soft
Just now feels like a sanding cloth.
These eyes now cloudy and indistinct
Were once the color of deepest mink.
On further down, I dare to look
The end of my nose has got a crook.
This little old lady I’ve become
The physical beauty long time gone.
What’s left is now for all to see
My name’s not Ami, it’s now Granny.
Self Portrait
Neither the fame of sun
nor the notoriety of moon
I am just an unnamed star
entrenched deep into the night
and flickers there
Hour 19
@varenyas
Strata
Most people exist on the surface,
content to think nothing of what lies beneath.
Layers upon layers build over the years,
millennia of strata built of bone, wood, and stone,
each layer with its own tale to tell,
yet to many they may as well not exist.
The anthropologist that one degree
declares me to be demands to know more,
to seek out those stories and chronicle them,
the writer within sifting through the detritus of time,
to parse who, what, and where came before,
and why that should matter.
Nature’s revelations so often
are prompted by violence,
short, sharp upheavals of stone and soil
by earthquake, volcano, and flood,
or the creeping disintegration of softer layers,
a gentler violence through time.
I wish there was a way
to say I miss you from right next to you
my voice so close you can hear
the longing, my breath fanning
against your neck and
my hand inside your hair
too much longing gets lost in the distance
for the words to mean much without
you seeing my face;
that I mean it
I mean it always,
miss you whenever
I get up in the morning and have no one to talk to,
when I
go to the movies by myself
to practice being alone
when I cook too much again and
keep thinking about if you’d have liked it
when I scroll past
our chat in the phone
I miss you in the small moments like an aside
I miss you in the life events I always thought we’d share
I wish there was a way
to cross the distance daily
just to see you, at least
once per day
to fiddle with a strand of your hair
while you sleep and whisper
I miss you
in the air