24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Normalcy, the status quo for sure
Boxes of being, convenience for conception
Intended for manual correction
Not connection to others, but
Of afflictions to personality
Not all is lost, however;
Normal can be what you make of it
It’s what you take from it,
It’s how you shake it from the tree
Of normalcy; remember: it has many branches
Pen Names, Ode to Our Quills
“Most people don’t name their Quills.” Dylan Ferrara
“Pens captivate the mind.”
BIC, Pentel RSVP, Sharpie, Pilot, Crayola,
Dry Erase, Papermate, Metallic Gel Roller,
Montblanc, Cirrus, Stylus, Uni-Ball, Britebrand,
Quill it’s a brand., Executive Cirrus, Grafton Mini,
Caran d’ Ache, U Brands…
We name our muses
so should we call out to our swords.
The writing instruments
that connect us to each other,
to the world.
Not only our verses in poetry,
but our letters handwritten
to one another.
Our first drafts
revisions journeys and entries
to our final completions.
We need to name all pens,
odes to our dried out friends
of the past.
My editor calls her muse Harry.
This pen’s now called George.
It is hell to get old of that I’m told. But I’m still not certain why?
I used to be able to see my toes when I looked down.
Five ponds of potatoes weigh more than they used to.
The road signs have been changed and made smaller.
Strange things float in the air and become imbedded in my skin.
I enter rooms and can’t remember the reason.
Sleep is my newest hobby.
There is a difference between my grandchildren’s names and my dogs, sometimes.
Exercise (highly overrated) has become lifting my glass to my lips.
Beautiful girls call me Sir in bars.
I still chase my wife around the bed but don’t remember what to do when I catch her,
It is Hell to get old of that I’m told
Now I know why!
The sun peeking out of treetops
Is a beautiful sight
The red flowers on the highest branches
Reflect the rays just right
The crow family cawing at the sun?
They just like things that are bright
The early morning dew shines
Like pearls scattered on sands white
Under the same blue sky
A painted picture of true delight.
(Context of the poem: Every one is a poet in early morning hours… Philosopher as well? They certainly feel at peace.. one with all nature ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)
Such a maddening pain. Incessant, pulsating pressure in the mouth What is vanity next to agony? Decay behind the lips, failing speech. Incessant, pulsating pressure in the mouth Tongue lingering upon the opened wound Decay behind the lips, failing speech What insanity will find truth in this voice? Tongue lingering upon the opened wound, What is vanity next to agony? What insanity will find truth in this voice? Such a maddening pain.
So Death walks into a bar
He asks for a Lime Gimlet
The bartender gives him a dirty look
Death won that round
Death walks into a restaurant
He asks for an ice cream cone to go
The waiter gives him a dirty look
Death won that round too
Death walks into a hospital
He asks where ER is
The nurse gives good directions
Death found who he was looking for
Death walks into his office
He has a patient, a waiter, and a bartender
His secretary says ” Good Night?”
Death says ” I didn’t get my ice cream cone and my Gimlet.
A good night is relative”
She cuts like a knife
Deep down the heart, she cuts deep like the saw
She is a pepper in disguise
She is like a hungry ho
She drains and leave the town in grief
Children, of varying sizes, equal, to a degree
Sons and daughters
Healthy, except one
unsure of vegetables
afraid of Dad, voice too loud
Friends come and go
Enjoying free food and horse rides
The house is large
they like people knowing
they are rich
Generally agreeing, that the Law
Is worth abiding to
Because trouble
simply means trouble
the word is prominence
The earth is proud of them
They like trees and animals
Glowing concepts of freedom and love
(taking into account their neighbour)
eyes always out for dogs chasing cars
There is a union
Of belief and obligation
Good vs bad never difficult
expanding self-defense
to the maintenance of dignity
Dad isn’t home much, works hard
Mother towers over them all
Using Father’s name
dedicated to everything
and always, let her kids win
Codes
Away from the storefronts and skyscrapers, the forest ranger waits
for his bread to bake – sourdough twists, a hint of lemon, a taste
that brings him back to life. He rubs the night from his eyes, tucks his green
shirt in his pants, puts on one worn boot after the other. His belt
buckle glimmers, a Kentucky horse racing in the small sliver
of light from his curtains’ crack. He hears the birds playing, preying,
mating, wishing he had one of his own. He shakes the thought and slinks
out the door, down his stairs, walks to his shed and puts in the code.
With a chirp, the door sparks open, his Jeep a deep forest color
waiting for him to ride, the beating drum he’s born to play. He spits
on his sleeve and rubs off some dirt. He hops in, locks the door, forgetting
his enemies only have paws. With his head in the clouds, as his past
girls would say, he zooms off into the day, helping, saving, rescuing
furry lives and the only hearts that promised him they’d always stay.