24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
There are too many noises in the night. Crickets chirp, bloated stomachs growl, sinuses snore.
the front wings are rubbed together and is amplified by wing surface
there is nothing to muffle these sounds
too congested to breathe
Below the belt there’s always stressed skin, leaving impressions
Like a bad headache in the morning.
* the italicised phrases are found phrases
“A beautiful lady wearing black drapes,
As though she’d just visited a funeral;
In front of a natural background,
She sits majestically,
Like a lion its den;
Her face so radiant,
She attracts moths
The perfect example of elegance and class,
In a very mysterious fashion.”
Momentarily suspend disbelief,
and separate yourself from reality.
Bend your mind to see different points of view,
look at life with childlike wonder,
reach into your imagination,
bring forth amazing fantasies.
Weave stories and dreams
into a collection of color,
a vibrant tapestry
of temporary escape,
where you can relax,
lose yourself in the delicate intricacy,
and believe in impossibilities.
Text Prompt
Write a poem focusing on an experience through a sense other than vision – or a sense you don’t often use or ignore.
Contributed by Janette Rosebrook.
Image Prompt
Insecure Th0ughts
By: LuvMiFreely
(Hour 15)
The interest was there
We had so much in common
Conversation flowing naturally
As soon as I feel the vibe
I allowed the Devil to sneak in
Filled my head with thoughts of insecurities
Playing over in my mind
I talked myself out of what could have made me happy
Creating a fear of you walking away
Telling myself I’m not good enough
Words that never came from your mouth
I had the potential to have a good man
And I let the Devil win…
…never again
Sneaking out with my friends
To meet a middle-aged man
With intent on stealing my virtue
Talking of red wings, things I
Knew absolutely nothing of
Other than it was vile
Friends with plans to steal away with me
Telling me I shouldn’t wait
And that I didn’t need love
I needed the experience
And what better way to learn
Than from a pedophile
Drunk at the wheel.
I remember crawling out the window
Slipping upon the ice
In springtime’s blushing pinks
Scourging my exposed skin
As they wanted me exposed
To their sin.
Fifteen years old
With innocence intact
I wanted love first
And my love my last
But not this burly drunkard
Dusty mop of blonde hair
Splattered against a
Sweaty forehead, hat askew
Mumbles under breath
But they promised it was alright
That I was going to be okay
I was safe
Within his arms and
Cold hands clutching the steering wheel.
“You need to do this.
I’ve been there before.
He could make you feel so good.
He’s done it all before.”
I couldn’t keep the pressure from
Pulsing in my head
But in my heart, I knew
What felt right
And what was
Most certainly wrong.
I turned and ran,
Followed my own footsteps
Back home
through my open window
And waited anxiously for one friend
To return.
As irony had it,
They had nowhere else to go.
Stuck on glare ice
In front of my house
Burning rubber
Screeching tires
As they went fast to nowhere
For hours
They sat, pushed, pulled, revved
Passed out from the booze
While one came back and the other
Tied the noose
With her own hair
And my stepdad in bed
One eye open
And a mirthful smirk.
Honesty served me the next day
A plate of nods of approval
For having the strength to say no-
Not this one
Not this time
Never again-
And it was then I also learned
Who I could trust-
Who was my friend
And who was out to try and make me-
More like them
and less myself.
There once was a time
a long, not forever ago
when a girl told me a
secret not shared with
just anyone but she and
I were a thing and she
was the first, of a sort
and what she told me
shouldn’t have made me
do anything but draw her
closer and yet it did just
the opposite and I don’t
even really know why it
did that but maybe that
is where the problem was
because the ‘it’ that got
the blame was a nothing
that I should have been
concerned about and as I
was young and stupid in
such things maybe just
maybe if I could go back
and see that the problem
was me then just maybe
what she took as a firm no
would’ve been something
with more substance than
nothing and I could have
and I should have just said
‘It’s okay” and maybe just
maybe since I can’t change
what was I can someday
find her and tell her I know
it shouldn’t have changed
anything but would it be
just me sharing my problem
at least giving her a chance
to return the cold shoulder
she should have been able
to cry on or have both our
shoulders now atrophied?
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2021
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
I knew his name, Anubis, when I saw him,
as if he spoke to me in my half sleep.
There he stood near the wall at the sliding glass door
of the house I rented, sight unseen.
He looked at me as I rounded the corner from the
laundry room off the garage. The room I’d yet to see.
One eye, a bright ruby. The other, deep glowing sapphire.
The finest gemstones worthy of an Egyptian God.
The Egyptian God of Death.
“You walked the temples of Egypt,” she had told me years ago.
the psychic, Irene, “offering prayers from the living to the dead.”
“A priestess of the highest order in a golden age,” she said.
How bizarre that now I work with computers and play the tarot.
He must be my friend, Anubis, guarding my back door, in the house
I never saw before I came. What shock when the haunts arrived.
How does one speak to a God as a friend?
How does one speak to death knowing death is a passage into life?
“Yes.”
He finally replied, my dear friend, Anubis.
My guardian, having endured too many.
“The Son of God is tired of bringing you back.”
Yes, Love, I know.
He told me so in a dream.
“This I say to he who kills:
Do not cheat my day!
Do not cheat me of my lair!
Oh, you of evil ways, I say unto thee
I will dine upon your souls
at the gate of my king!
For you, death is a passage into death!
For you, death is a passage into me!
And I am very hungry!
I rage and attack the murderers!
I anguish at the wars!
I growl and snarl at the suicides!
The self-hate I deplore!
Oh, homicide turned inward
and outward upon itself
You cannot escape your hell through me
for within me is the most bitter end.”
Precious friend, you are life everlasting.
You guard the gates of eternity.
You are loved, yet feared by those
who know nothing of love.
“Yes.
Yet you do not fear me.
Fear not, for the Lord, thy God, is with me, always.
And I AM with you.”
Yes.
Someday Maybe
Children of the midnight sun
who lost their sight
also love to play hide and seek
with butterflies
among golden magnolias
and white chrysanthemums
fighting imaginary demons
and pastries and cakes
want to live eat, play, sleep
and see the world
as normal kids
someday maybe someday
Hour 14
@varenyas
Flarf poem [Googled “Imaginary” and “Children”]
Parenting Made Simple
Is it normal for me to have an imaginary child?
Of course! They are the best!
Imaginary kids listen and offer support.
They teach more than just how to play pretend.
Estimates suggest as many as two-thirds of children have imaginary friends.
Reports have shown imaginary friends existing in children up to 12 years old.
How old am I?
Does that really matter?
Yes, I am over fifty!
So what?
7.5 % of those studied reported experiencing an imaginary friend as an adult.
If your imaginary child ever becomes scary, aggressive, or frightening, an evaluation with a mental health professional can give you peace of mind.
I’ll have no need for that.
If my imaginary child ever becomes scary, aggressive, or frightening, I’ll just give them a piece of my mind and to send them to their rooms.
Later, I’ll shout, “Just wait until your imaginary mother gets home! She’ll ground you for a week!”
See, I have it all figured out.
Being a parent is so simple.