24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hour Nineteen: Ekphrastic photo response
Ruddy russet and golden field
School colors somewhere
Sky blued to match dolphin’s birthplace.
Can a sky escape from clouds?
Can one come down this single road and leave?
Not till nightfall
and even then, the colors
will vibrate.
9pm. Poem 19.
Gramma’s Bedroom (an haiku)
Stripes, flowers, stuffed toys
memories of everything
in Gramma’s bedroom.
My boots are thick
But I can still feel
The crunch of frozen water
Snow packing beneath my feet
The cold bites at my nose
Tries to seep into my gloves
My breath a smokey array
Of frozen moisture
White specks begin to fall
Quietly from the sky
Sticking to the ground
Sticking to me
All around me
There is a kind of quiet
One you only find
In the dead of winter
With the silence
Comes a strange kind of peace
Anticipation
For the coming Spring
The worst part of all the fuss
is never knowing when the circus comes to play.
The whirling carousel vertigo and warped fun-mirror migraines
post no schedule and schedule no warning
and leave no room for proper function in the ring,
despite the ever-increasing demand for perfect attention.
If I faint before the audience, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
(Hour 19)
Writing is like a building,
with a roof made up of love
a wall of hatred.
I’m a writer,
I might pinch or punch your ceilings,
Do not describe my words as your feelings,
I have the word you have the feelings.
Not yet old, but still a young lad.
Needn’t praise yet or a windfall,
The Lord hath sent the lofty rainfall.
I was taught how to read not write.
Now that I do both, I own a light
TIME
A stitch in time, saves nine
Alas time can never be a slave of mine
A low battery can pretend to slow down time
But, even the theorems of Einstein can never stop time.
Make sure to spend time with your friend,
You never know when your friendship might end
Make sure to spend time in your house
Create beautiful memories with your kids and spouse
Spend a lot of time nurturing your hobby,
Before you become old and just idle in the lobby
Utilise every moment of time like a boss
If we waste time, it will only be our loss.
BY
SHREYA SURAJ
I used to think
That everyone would get nervous in a roomful of girls
That it was perfectly normal
To have your heart skip a beat
When a pretty girl smiles at you
You just want to be friends, right?
I was assuaged
By the “correct” feeling for boys
Skipping hearts
Blushing cheeks
Irony has always been best appreciated
In hindsight
There was a girl
A close friend
Who delicately removed my shirt
And painted on my bare back
And I guiltily imagined what it would be like to kiss her
I had dreams
Where my hands and lips
Betrayed my desires
But how much could a dream mean anyway?
And then I held her hand
And leaned into her laugh just a little too much
And followed her to her bedroom
Where she curled into my side
And tilted her beautiful smile up to me
And I finally fucking realized
Muddle
My mind is a puddle mush
galumphing dumping muddle
as my eyes mish-mash
and cross over running cuddles,
streamlet dreams of sleep.
My heart double thumps
in scheming driblet themes
as my ears wish-wash
and skewer through sunny wobbles,
dreamlet streams of the deep.
My soul cuddle pushes
in theming droplet schemes
as my hands slap dash
and scoop under wobbly runnels,
deeplet steeps of sleepless dreams.
Noise and matatus and hawkers,
Air-conditioned offices and mansions,
Indians and Africans and Caucasians,
Reggae and Hip hop and Genge and Rock,
Opulence and oppression,
Brutality and beauty,
Intoxication.