24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Fleshy
Wet
Meat
Curling
The plumpness of the lips–the vocal orifice
Creation of meaningful sound is not only knowing the word, but feeling the weight of it.
A push of the air dependent on the pull of the mouth.
Sometimes perverse, always personal — like kissing the air in creation.
Some days, I wish I could end my life.
Some days, I wish I were alive.
Some days I am just tired.
Today, I’m full of hope.
Tomorrow I’m off
To live a little;
To be happy.
Yeah, yeah.
Bye.
Disorder
It only happens in the dark,
fragments of thoughts lose breath,
the voice of undone tasks relents,
filaments of the day break off to
tumble in freefall, rest begins,
but that’s when we intervene,
grasping at things we need to release,
sleep eluding us while the brain
stokes the coals and fires up
to keep us alert when the body
slumps in exhaustion.
A disordered file of what to keep
and what to let go of churns
virtual pages of notes jotted
in margins of books, on pay stubs,
in banks of computers in our brains.
Why do we have such a hard time
letting go of the day’s crumbs,
leftovers that will be stale
by morning when we will still
be awake and groggy?
Imagine the things we release
piled a foot high, the burden
gone from our brain, trash can
packed to the lid and put
at the curb til morning. Now
see the small satchel of things
we keep, zipped and stored
under the bed until we need them.
Disorder reordered… sleep.
~ J R Turek
June 27, 2021 Hour 16
It comes and goes in its magnificent beauty,
a respite from the vicissitudes of work.
We wander and seek a way to fill the time,
maybe play a sport while you’re still in your prime
But whatever you do, make sure it’s the best so
the rest of the week doesn’t feel like a pest
Life has more cinemas than you need to see
Child bearing and rearing are two villagers
Baby factory is an easy production
Parenting is the hardest of them
Fools can always make them
The wise mould them
Hindsight sort them
Each morning you
navigate without
opening your eyes
into the hollow
between my neck and thighs
nibbling my arm
like a toothless zombie.
You fit right in
the warmth of your skin
permeates mine
as your tiny fingers
tug my hair.
I chuckle at your sleepy grunts
as you kick off the blanket
I sneakily put on you,
pulling my limbs to wrap you instead.
Whiffs of your shampoo
fill up my lungs as I
run my finger down your side,
you giggle and squirm
digging deeper
your head on my heart
that thumps with the bliss
you bring.
I dig my fingers deep into the soil, and it’s soft as a new blanket.
I gather handfuls, tickling as it tumbles away from the edges of my grip.
I pat it down, and like a living body something deep beneath the surface is already warm. It pushes against my palms. Inhales, as I move them away.
And then the sapling.
The soil coats my fingertips in grit, but still the young bark feels like metal.
And when I pinch the base, there’s the curious sensation of depth and strength. Radiating through the roots and sturdy stem, through my fingers, up my arm. I feel my tree’s kindred with the earth.
I tug, and of course the soil comes too. The lightness in the pot is immediate, the emptiness of a hand with heavy bags left in the hall. It feels like plastic again. Some days it had been heavy as rock.
Lift. Suddenly the sapling is comically unbalanced, yet the wind catches the leaves like a sail and I feel the whole uncertain body strain.
New pot. New home. More soft soil. Until the tree is surrounded. I run my fingers across the diameter, to feel the rough and aged earth enrobed in velvet.
I think I feel my sapling breathe a sigh of relief.
The list of no more
Grows longer
Bucket list concedes
No adventure
Comfort and chores
Reveals a boring me
Days pass and wonder
What have I done
Is it enough to be worthy
Or just taking up space
Must I keep listening
To other’s complaints
Looking forward to
Ice cream just soft
Spencer Tracy reminds
Me he is gone
The yard grows wild
Because I let it
Accepting there will
Be no more cats
Has come slowly
I’m still not sure
There may be just
One left in me
Welcome back to the world you once knew
so much for us to say and do.
I’ll catch you up on my story
and you’ll tell me about you.
Let me into the bubble of your life.
How’s your sister? Your folks? Your wife?
Anything you need, just say the word
because there’s nothing you can speak that won’t be heard.
So we’ll laugh, play, sing every song we know.
Just like the old days, all systems go.
And when all is said and done, we’ll immortalize our endeavor
to ensure it lives on forever and ever