In 24 hours poets are challenged to write one poem every hour for a total of 24 poems. I’ve been ‘running’ these marathons for four years now, sometimes taking part in as many as four marathons in a single year!
I had never thought of writing a poem an hour before the idea came up on my Facebook feed as an offer to join a poetry marathon. The idea was spawned by Caitlin Jans and her husband who have been evolving and changing their approach every year. After discovering this technique to poetry I soon found other venues to utilize it in. Writing a poem an hour is different from anything else I’ve ever taken part in. It sounds so simple and easy, and yet it isn’t. You wouldn’t believe the number of things that happen in a single 24 hour period. Our mood changes, minor or major disasters strike, life gets busy, the phone rings, company drops by, a friend has a crisis… all of these things affect the poetry that is written in that hour.
A lot of times a snippet of a sentence overheard can spin out into an entire unplanned poem, reading the poem over after the marathon I can’t help but wonder at the human mind (or at least my own mind) and the story it weaves out of the mundane into fanciful worlds of prose.
I’ve written these marathons after finding out in hour 4 that my grandmother died. I’ve written them with internet outages and all manner of ‘events’ that you would swear wouldn’t happen in the average day. It’s an adventure that highlights every minute of the day in question. It’s like the introverts version of Kiefer Sutherland in 24!
I could talk a lot more about this process and the feeling of the alarm going off each hour but I think I’ll write a second blog about that. This post is more about the poems. Below, starting with hour 1 you can find, unedited as they came from me moment by moment the complete list of my poems from the 2017 marathon.
The End of Dreamland
VCS
The End of Dreamland
Faded
A roller coaster plunging
Into the mists of oblivion
Placed by a cruel prankster
Collecting tickets
Laughing at the joke
See the rubes pay the toll
The tolls set to the price
It’s only your soul!
That Dreamland is more nightmare
Than laughter and love
Emaciated skeletons
Dancing through a distorted utopia
A world that never was
Never would be
Never could be
Thank all the gods above
That soap bubbles irridescent sheens
are
As fragile as the egos gathered
Around the casting couch
of ghouls and gangsters
the denizens of dreamland
the nightmare curse
I woke up one day
The dream was over
The sun played off the motes
The broken hopes left behind
The splintered edifices
Made of plaster of paris
Left to rot in the desert
Giant sphinxes
Violet eyed Cleopatras
It was all a dream
A lost city
Less real than silicon
More dubious than Atlantis
Or Lemuria
It was all a dream
Now we’re back from dreamland
Reality
Such as it is
Is better than the rotten shrouds
We tried to cover ourselves in
Soap bubbles pop
Roller coasters plunge
Dreams finish
Nightmares die
Awaken to
Reality
Such as it is
Emerald Cut
VCS
The pool was was made of turquoise wind
the edges sculpted
an emerald cut tapered up
of perfect teal
Hidden in its high setting
protective mountains
coated in diamond dust
glaciers
that dripped
merciless cold
from the dawn of time
with endless purity
into the vast jewel
leaping high with strange inclusions
jumping fish
living waters
pouring out into the evermore
6h Pencils
VCS
Hard etched lines
Sketched cruelly by a clan
of reckless hands
Caring about each cut millimeter
tearing through the fleshy layers
of pressed pulp page
and the work of art under the
6h pencils razor lead blades
Threatening to tear the page with each
Jagged
Irregular line
Reclaimed page
Futile to think the scribbles
Could ever be removed
The true picture revealed
Happy endings
Are meant to be believed in
Even for what looks like a
Piece of paper that could be tossed
crumpled
into the garbage can
No different than the thousands of other pages
lost under similar circumstance
No different until it is picked up
By the wind
By hands
But most of all the submission of self
To not resist the reclaiming process
To not tear
As each unkind imprint in alleviated
Understood
Erased
And integrated into the picture
That had been obscured underneath
It is now uncovered
Richer in shading
Deeper in layers
Dimensions that defy the eye
No mind conceived this art
The imperfections integrated into the picture
Seamlessly
So naturally
You’d never know
As it is carefully placed into
A complimentary matte
A protected now behind glass
In a place of honor on the wall
That this masterpiece
Hung beside other classic pieces of art
Throughout the ages
Was intended by cruel grown up children
For nothing more
Than violent scribbles
And the refuse bin
Asmodeus
VCS
He sat alone
Under the heat of a thousand suns
Under the desert
Where he had been thrown
Hunched with his arms
Hugging his warty, broken legs
He had turned to stone
Buried under dunes of sand
from the long, long ago
There had been a mighty king
Who had had a mighty ring
Given to him by the angels themselves
To make a temple to rule the world
And to rule the self
Asmodeus had come
He of the stone
Walking like a man
He couldn’t hide his limp
he could only give it to another
For a time and time
To give him the semblance
Of one who was what he liked to call
A hell of a ‘Smooth Operator’
‘Let me help you build your temple,’
He said to the King with the furrowed brow
The stones had ceased to fit together
The beams were broken
The edifice falling around him
What was mighty was now dying
‘Leave me be, I need no help unless you are a magician!’
The man with the hidden limp
Didn’t bother to answer; because he was no magician
He was a creature of fell magic himself
He did not want the shrewd King to scent his deception
With the stolen nimbleness of a hind
He leapt onto cypress pillars
‘Ah ha!’ Asmodeus exclaimed, his eyes twinkling
The King thought to himself,
‘His eyes are as bright as the sky over an oasis,
He’s a magician, there is no doubt and my problems are ended!’
Asmodeus, his black hair, shining in the sun
Produced a copper wedge
All carbuncled in green barnacles
‘Here’s the problem, a curse was laid on your temple.’
He tossed the wedge to the King who dropped it when it burned his hands
and scored a sigil into his index finger.
‘Let the building re-commence!’ Ordered the demon Asmodeus
And so it was that the demon won the confidence of the king
whose angelic ring could control the world of any spirit
and the canny king didn’t suspect a thing!
Asmodeus gave his name as a lie and became the confidant of the king
Who believed him sent from God
Rather than the devil’s plaything
Until one day the king had to go away
And his most prized possession he gave to the one he trusted most
The King of Demons: Asmodeus
When the canny king returned to his throne he found it occupied
By the demon man with hair of black and eyes of blue
His ring on his hand, His robes on his shoulders
His wives attending him like he was their beloved
And Asmodeus used his hellish powers to throw the king
a thousand leagues
laughing in glee
and eating the king’s own figs
A thousand leagues was not far enough to throw the canny king
Who walked over the blazing sand and through the wastelands
Until he returned to the lands
That had once been under his command
His eyes blazed with glints of red
From the alembic flames he had been tortured in
He walked into his throne room in begger’s rags
But no one stopped him, one look froze them in place
Asmodeus had grown fat on the king’s throne
He drooled wine and his eyes drooped with sleepy disconcern
He did not recognize the man before him as the rightful king
Until the man in rags walked to him and sliced off his finger
The only way to get it off the now bloated member
The canny king stamped Asmodeus between the eyes
With the Pentalpha sigil and his demise
Now the demon was no longer lord
He was subject and bound as the other hoards
To obey the will of the king
The true son of the true king before him
‘Go forth into the desert and dig a tomb in the sand.
Dig until you can dig no more
Then never move again.’
The demon staggered from the hall and his
Shroud of glamour fell from the eyes of all
And they shook their heads and rubbed their eyes
As they watched Asmodeus’s tail leave the hall,
his legs limping, his bulk bursting his scaly skin
He walked far into the desert
To dig his own grave
With his taloned hands
At the King’s command
And sat and listened to the winds howling above him
until his ears filled with sand
And his lungs along with them
Then he ceased to think or move
And turned to stone
Under the dunes
And that was how he was found
more than a thousand years later
By an alchemist who would quickly become greater
Thanks to the power
Of the stone demon
Who whispered wisdom in his ear
Exactly as much as he needed to hear
Until Asmodeus was free once more
Plodding and evil
The canny king was gone
His temple long since with him
But between the demons eyes
The burned sigil
And frozen stone joints
Still bite into him.
Tap Dancing on Puddles
VCS
He went out the door at noon
He arrived at the pub at two
By three or four he was playing billiards
After seven in the evening
He couldn’t recall
If he’d told his wife
Where he’d been off to
(She tended to get mad at his leaving)
With his blood pumping heat
from his head to his feet
He walked home in the snow
Northern lights overhead casting
Their spelling, singing like crackling glass
Lighting his gaunt face in their green and pink glow
Like a tap dancer he skipped across a puddle of ice
With the grace of Gene Kelley
And now one to see
The voice of a pipe organ
He serenaded the moon
Until he came to the front door
Of his own little home and remembered
That Marjorie hadn’t been told
That he’d been gone since noon
(Or more importantly she hadn’t told him
that she was okay with him coming home
by the light of the north and the moon)
The door creaked on its hinges
The house looked deceptively at peace
But he knew that Marjorie would not likely
Have gone to bed so soon
Peering with wide eyes
He took off his crushed fedora from his
Creased working man’s brow
and tossed it into the dark by the couch
His breath blew out of him in clouds in the cold
He rubbed his arms for warmth
And cursed in a whisper
As his hat
Like a miracle
Flew back to his hand
Marjorie was awake and her message was plain:
He was not welcome here until the ‘morrow
Sweet bottles of sorrow
He closed the door with a prayer
To the God of his fathers
(That he said he didn’t believe in but
he prayed to all the same)
And tap dancing over
The frozen puddles
He went to find a couch
To sleep what was left of the night away
Spitballs and Evergreens
VCS
Wrapped in torn remnants
Of papers
With names and places
Most of which mean nothing to me
They have stuck to me
Like spitballs
Cast by naughty children
Sitting bored
At the back of math class
Immobilizing me
Pumping me full of immortal resin
My soul pushed and pulled
In a stream of paperwork
I didn’t start
With a zip code written
On my DNA that branded me
Before I was made to order
Like a homunculus with no purpose of my own
Full of amber sap dripping from evergreen trees
Buried under the earth
I ring my bell
I’m still not dead
I’m still not dead
I ring my bell
From my tomb
Encased in my mummy suit
made from ancient scrolls
I never read
I’m still not dead
I ring my bell
My soul is my own
I did not choose to speak
Yet I must
I will not be an Immortal Buddha
And once more I rip off these
scabs of paper and emerge newborn
from the grave you’ve already dug for me
Because I’m still not dead
I walk the earth
I ring my bell
I sing my song
I will not drink the poison
The evergreen is ever dead
But I am not
I’m still not dead
I’m still only just a new born
Ringing my bell
As my cry to the universe.
Perching
VCS
I sat on a pole
Held aloft
Under the sweltering sun
Of the rotting waste
Of the battlefield below me
I looked out of a telescope
Harangued by flies
Gnawed at by hunger
Smacked in the chest with despair
I scan the horizon
Looking for anything that moves
Hoping for rescue
Fearing more attack
From my lofty perch
I can avoid most of the perils
Of the decay of war
But I make a handy target for arrows
Or any muck someone might want to throw
There is something coming, I see it moving
Slowly and steadily it comes towards me
I take out my scroll
And my precious bottle of ink
There are plenty of buzzard and crow feathers
With which to make a new quill
I sit down
upon my perch
Listening to the sounds of death
and write about the battle
I am the only one to have survived
The trust is mine to tell their story
Survivors guilt makes the ink
Thick with survivors guilt
As I form each letter with great care
On the only scroll I still have
Waiting
The form grows larger
My fate no more sure
Than any other mortal
On my pole overlooking
The charnal pit that holds my family and friends
The Words are Marching
VCS
I wrote a hundred thousand words
I tossed them in the air
I wrote them in a coma
I wrote them on the stare
I tried to keep the words down
With chicken soup and ginger ale
But gypsy curses and wandering street light people
Threw my words like cookies
Back out of me and I brayed them
From the steeples
I thought that eventually
They would be picked clean
When I hung around at rookeries
But it was not to be
A million words came marching
And jumped right out of my cerebellum
Not caring a dash about what happened to me
Words are thoughtless creatures
Even when used thoughtfully
Marauding little beasts
They have complete control over me
Sometimes they pick my hands up
Even when I’m sleeping
And ghostlike pluck the keyboard
Into unknown symphonies
The words are coming from the rafters
They live in the crannies in the walls
They live in desperate lovers
They make the weak tremble and fall
They make the strong the same if they’re not careful
The words are marching out of me
Brazen creatures they! Coming out of my hands, my mouth my eyes
And yet you make them say to you as you would have them speak
That’s the way they like it
Twisting
Making wind
Tornadoes swooping down on landscapes
Leaving ruin
Or bringing us to brand new worlds
The choice is theirs
It isn’t up to me or you
He Ain’t No Nice Guy
VCS
They called him insane, the man of pain
They called him lame
Some just said, ‘You ain’t no nice guy’
But none of that was true,
it was just an angle of the sun
beaming off a diamond
He didn’t ask for accolades
He said, ‘I’m the boy in the box’
They made him the holy ghost
They said he moved through them
They said he spread death on the air
He said, ‘leave me alone’
They said, ‘You ain’t no nice guy’.
He didn’t ask to be put in the center ring
He didn’t ever want to have it be a whole big thing
They copied him in every way
They stole his hair and his poetry
They called him a saint and took away his privacy
They called him insane, the man of pain
They called him lame
They cut hairs into splinters to make each accusation true
Until they drove him into the arms of madness
That’s where I met him
And I could see why they did what they did to him
With his nose broken
His long hair hanging in his face
I found him on the mens room on the floor
A needle in his arm
He whispered to me, ‘get back, I ain’t no nice guy’
I sat beside him on the floor
the tiles were cold, his body radiated heat
the toiled smelled like shit and vomit
‘this ain’t no nice place to be,’ I replied as I sunk down
So our eyes could lock
I wondered if I was his hallucination or if I was his
Either way, he stroked my hair away from my eyes
And I felt his fingertips, as soft and real as a spring breeze
‘They’re always going to do this to you, you’ll always end up where I am’
I nodded in understanding
Looking at him all I saw the preying mantis from the classroom
And he was the bug caught in her grip
‘So what do we do?’ I asked
He laughed, his laugh echoed and then he stopped because
We both knew how it was
He was mad
‘We pray.’
He took my hands in his and started to pray
Yay, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I shall fear no evil
He opened his eyes and I opened mine,
We had each dug half moons with our fingertips
Into the other’s hands
His eyes were the only thing in the room that wasn’t
the color of bile or other exudate.
When we had prayed and I was still there
He said to me, ‘I shall fear no evil; but it still
smells like shit and I still ain’t no nice guy.’
I saw the syringe had fallen from his arm and rolled behind the toilet.
A drop of his blood brightened the room on his forearm.
He saw where my gaze had gone and pulled my gaze back to his and said,
‘Ain’t anyone got to be nice to know this ain’t real and we’re both
being eaten by the world. What’s a few painkillers between me and the Lord?’
That was the first time I met him, when I fell asleep in class
But it wouldn’t be the last
Call him the Holy Ghost
Call him the Angel of Death
Call him a Poet
Call him a Priest
He doesn’t owe it to anyone to be a nice guy but I rather think that he is.
Something New
VCS
Darkened hallways
Turn darker still
The last lights of what was
Are dimmed and gone
The wind has stopped
Rustling the leaves
Only evil beasts still caper
Through the bowers of the trees
What is
What was
It is no more
I can’t recall ever working so hard
To get rid of something
That I loved so much
The bitter pain
Gnaws at me of losing the potential
Of the life that was never had
But holding on hurts exponentially in score
And now there is time for something more
Something better
We deserve to have something good
Not poisoned by the ghosts that lived here
Before we were ever born
and the angry spirits that came after
Yet here we linger
On the edge
Of a new adventure
Where it goes
The path that shimmers
Into reality before me
Is all still shrouded in mystery
But what I know
Is that those old halls
are darker and smaller
than ever before
Life has fled these paths
And it is time for something
Entirely new
Just me and you
Butterscotch Sunbeam
VCS
In the afternoon
When things get still and slow
I watch a little sunbeam
That escaped into my room
All is quiet and dim
Except for the roar of that
Little drip of sun
And the scent of butterscotch
Running off it’s light
And puddling onto hardwood floors
I don’t know how it got here
Or where its friends are at play
But this little sunbeam
Has fallen my way
It’s as loud as a freight train
In the otherwise dark room
Dimmed for an afternoon nap
After the rising of noon
It shines its spotlight on every spot of dust
And lets me know its noticed
Every bit of muss
Even though it woke me up
With its demand to play
dripping with sweetness
To remind me of the summer day
It’s impossible to do anything
But smile in a wistful way
The sunbeam’s found her friends
And vanished in her play
Flip flop
VCS
Flip flop
On the table top
This won’t take a minute
You won’t feel a thing
Except for this
It might be hit or miss
Flip flop
Lying on the table top
It’s a bit of a miracle
A dash of science
Maybe a placebo
Any way I like it
Flip flop
Do the drop
On the table top
It’s magic and a secret
But something says yes
Flip flop
Flip flop
A little dab will do you
At least it’s a start
Fragrantly
VCS
Fragrantly
Wafting through the air
Rosemary cuts an acrid trail
For pungent sage on his way with
Parsley on his arm in her feathered finery
And crisp bouquet
Olives pressed
To make sweet oil
That sizzles softly
Around pink salt that came
From the tallest mountains
To my pallet
My mouth fills
In anticipation of the
Mingled essences in the air
I am grateful to each living thing
From the beasts who walked
The plants that grew
The herbs that sprung
The olives that clung
And the salts the flew
From the mountain tops
Fragrantly and Thankfully
You fill the air
And my tummy
Powering my body
For another day of living
Dear Mr. Whippy
VCS
Mr. Whippy is ganging up on me
With his gang of thugs
And his alphabets
He hems and hrumphs and I know
He knows how to rap knuckles
With that stick
He keeps telling me
That Diacritacal marks come later
First learn to make the lines
‘But,’ I protest, ‘I fear that
My pronunciation is quite off.’
He sucks in his mustache and his lips disappear
Underneath his disapproving
But very discerning over-lip hair
And when John Dee
Makes his foot notes
In another tongue
I know that Mr. Whippy will translate for me
But with many a disapproving air
At kids these days
Who aren’t taught ancient Greek
And barely read Latin at all
How remiss my classical education
He will groan between making marks in shorthand
(Another dying art! Ah, why don’t they teach
the children shorthand?)
Dear Mr. Whippy, I fear of opening
The door of every room of learning
My brain is only so big
And I haven’t read all the classics
My education is appalling
Why bother to read them at all
If not in their native tongues?
It’s with dragging feet that I carry my notebooks
And my tomes
To Mr. Whippy’s door
And hope he won’t berate me
I fear my head will explode
If I try to learn any more!
Draw Nearer
VCS
Sirens wailing, fires blazing
Draw nearer
Evacuation center
Smokey skies are burning
The sun’s on fire
The moon immersed in
A tidal pool of blood
Province burning, ‘copters whirling
Draw nearer
Breathe deep and try not to think
Of what could or could not be
It’s just about time
For the hot point in the year
Think carefully
Lakes are flooding, so many dying
Water and Air
Fire and Earth
All trade places
Nothing could be done about that perhaps
Not but you or me
But the rest!
We’re all caught up in it
Trees explode like roman candles
What started this?
One cigarette
Still too cool to put the flicker out
Instead of flash it out the window
Onto the tinder and broken land
You’re not above it all
No one is safe from any of this
Don’t think anyone is too good to
Be caught in the hell of flames
To lose your home or family
It happens every day
Sirens wailing, fires blazing,
Province burning, ‘copters whirling
Lakes are flooding, so many dying
Draw nearer
To a piece of sanity
Authentic
Posted on August 6, 2017 12:09am EDT by Virginia
Authentic
VCS
Authentic in my pain
Authentic in my joy
Authentic in my love
It scares the evil away
When you pour your heart out
Every word
The anguish in your voice
Your love in your eyes
The delight of a birch bud
Glowing on your skin
It’s not the same
For frauds
When each lie accumulates in the
Blocks of caution
In their eyes
And being authentic
Hurts the world of betrayals
Authentic in my pain
Authentic in my joy
Authentic in my love
It scares the evil away
When you pour your heart out
Every word
I can’t be any other way
I can’t ever change
I can say my truth more kind
I can walk away
I don’t have to be cruel to be true
But I have to be true to each little cell
That pumps life into my body and soul
Because that is my spirit
Authentic in my pain
Authentic in my joy
Authentic in my love
It scares the evil away
When you pour your heart out
Every word
And that is me
Authentic in my pain
Watch my tears flow
My heart break and pour out
onto the floor
A thousand times the joy
Of the little things
And the big things too
That overwhelm and make me silent
In appreciation of all the beauty in the world
This is authentic
Authentic in my pain
Authentic in my joy
Authentic in my love
It scares the evil away
When you pour your heart out
Every word
Lots of times it hurts
It isn’t always pretty
It is always beautiful
Even when it’s hideous too
The blights are so much darker
The days are brighter too
My passion won’t let me
When my heart screams no no no
Authentic in my pain
Authentic in my joy
Authentic in my love
It scares the evil away
When you pour your heart out
Every word
Authentic in my pain
Authentic in my joy
Authentic in my love
It scares the evil away
When you pour your heart out
Every word
Blood and Diamonds
VCS
From the heart of our mother’s pain
They speak to us
Of all that’s been and all that is to come
Diamonds
Those bits of carbon
Crushed in the fist of pain
The agony that makes life
The agony that frees
Diamonds sparkling
They say it’s all a scam
The value of the diamond
They say that it’s bad because…
Blood diamonds
All diamonds are made of blood
The blood of the earth as she
Is contorted into new forms
How funny that we ignore the bloodstains
On the things we use every day
But feel self righteous for avoiding
Sullying our hands
Eat the meat but spare the fur
Shun the diamonds but burn the oil seeped in bloody war
Self righteous is a fun horse to ride so high!
They say a lot of things about diamonds
Somme I believe to be true
One is that it’s bad luck
To buy your own diamond
Unless it’s to claim the bad luck you’ve already had
And own your pain
Diamonds
The gift of a mission accomplished
A new life, things never to be the same
For some a Medal of Honor is bestowed
But for others a diamond better fits
to describe
the hardness of life
that’s given the razor sharp acumen
and strength of those who survive
It’s the rainbow of understanding
All the colors embraced in one
Fire in a Carat
Blood diamonds
Immune to all but the most delicate and skilled touch
Nothing touches the diamonds heart
Or can put out her fire
Sparkle sparkle
I used to say
As we shone the brass away
In a Cinderella life
Now I sparkle another way
Now I’ve earned my medals from lessons learned
Badges of honor
From the only mother
Who loved me most
I will wear my diamonds
As I wear my scars
Each a badge of honor
As my mother taught me
Hovering There
VCS
Before you said I had
To leave this place
I had hoped it would be home
Even though I always knew
That would never be the way
It was meant to be
Because I was a foreigner
But you were out of this world
You were hovering there
In the dead of the night
And I was watching you
Thinking
This wasn’t at all right
I wished I was a kite
Because you sat below me
I could have caught the breeze
Drifted away through the park
Gotten out of your rank wind
But it didn’t happen that way
And you can’t change history
You told me I had to leave
And at first I said, ‘Okay’
But then I thought you’d gone
I came back
I shouldn’t have done that
The coming back I mean
The warning turned out to be a doozie
One of them there dooms
They’re all the rage
When the rage is on
And the rage is always on
You gotta heed those warnings
Even then it’s not always enough
Even then they still catch you out
Even then they’ll gun for you in the night
They tell you to get out
And shine lights in your face
Hovering in the night
Better listen to them
Boys and girls
There’s nothing else to do
They’re the ones who own this world
Even though they say they’re foreigners here
We’re just taking up space
While we’re waiting to say goodbye
When they say, ‘byebye’
It’s time to run and hide
Drag you to the velvet underground
They’ll take you for a ride
Hovering in the night
And you can’t change history
You told me I had to leave
But I came back
When I knew you were gunning for me
I had a cocky grin
I thought this was my world
Turns out it’s just the porch
to the velvet underground
And all the rest is hell
Wouda
VCS
Do you know the Wouda’s?
They live most any place
They can be both good or evil
A pleasure or a disgrace
Under the sea they creep like starfish
On land they hide
A secretive race
Do you know the Wouda?
You may have mistaken them for
Someone’s hand or a toy
But I assure you they are alive and well
They adapt to any situation
With alacrity and joy
Do you know the Wouda?
Not the Coulda, Shoulda or even Buddha?
But in fact the Wouda
Who creeps up in disguise
It is the helping hand you need
When all else seems lost
It isn’t a pixie, a gnome or a dwarf
It is the noble Wouda
And if you don’t know about them
I think its time you shoulda
because they’re the helpers we all need
The very special Wouda
I don’t recall
VCS
You don’t come to mind much anymore
I don’t recall your face
Your voice
That world has been exorcised
Excised
I am at peace with the clarity of my heart
And with how you vanished along with my own
Reserection
You tried to steal everything from me
You didn’t leave me even scraps
I was never angry about that
But I was confused and hurt
Now I have found gratitude
Because I don’t have to thank you
You have nothing to do with the good places
I’ve been at
This is a farewell
And it isn’t to only one
There are many of you
Living and dead who tried to take my life
With many justifications
Objectifications
Gratifications of yourselves
But now
I’ve forgotten your faces
And your voices
And even the feel of your skin
I don’t remember the way you smelled
Or the exact color of your hair
Or your eyes
I am happy to let those things
Like the rest of my pain
Float away
One the river of life
Turn my face into the new dawn
And feel only love once more
Gimmee
VCS
Copy of a copy of a copy
Spinning into a lack of cogent
Reality
There is no definition
Making out the lines
Has become foggy
More of a guessing game
Than anything advertised
None of us signed on for this
And there is more every day
We need space
We need originality
Instead of tightening ligatures
Of conformity
As the boundaries get tighter and tighter
The lyrics of the songs
Blur into one long litany
Of Gimmee Gimmee Gimmmee
There isn’t enough for everyone
To have everything they want
Not when they don’t want it really
Not anyhow
Once their fingers are on it
It’s tossed to the side
The next illusion chased
All to the litany of gimmee gimmee gimmee
It never gets
It only takes
The dance of the copy machine
All running around
Trying to look, act and talk the same
shaming anyone who dares to stand
gimmee gimmee gimmee
copy copy copy
you won’t ever get what you’re wanting
Not this way
this isn’t what we’re here for
None of us really want this anyway
The dance of nihilism continues
Every single day
Killing the pain with whatever comes
Up the nose, with a pill, in a vein on a VISA card
Gimmee gimmee gimmee
The copies fade more each day
Three
VCS
The hour has come
When it is darkest
And eyelids close
and all grows weary
Each hour is exponential to the last
only two more to go
one, two, three
Three in the morning
and three poems in a row
Cordial crushed berries
Fresh off the vine
bright bits of summer
tang like pure wine
your leaves blow in the wind
revealing bounty under each bough
startling glimpses of red
faded to pink
through to
unripe
white
the future harvest that’s waiting
for its day in the sunlight
but for now their are plenty of ripe
handfuls of wine berries
my fingers stain red
thistles sting over eager
grasps
as the plants protect themselves
from the ravages of grazers like myself
gathering leaves to dry
for the panacea of summer health
they will bring to cold winter months
a praise for the berry
an early friend to humanity
and lifelong companion to one and all
Bleary eyed I sit a-typing
plagued as every writer before me
has been with the writing
sitting up when sleep beckons
in her ghostly form
her sweet smile curves upward
and I am reminded of the cool
relief of her embrace and how
it feels to sink into
the mistiness of her fragrant form
to refill the need
of the mind
to seek the land
where stories are born
deep in our dreams
we swim the ether and course the waves
to wake in the warm sand of morning
the sun shining in our eyes
the keyboard at hand once again
the stories
the words
pouring forth
fresh baked from that special place
I need to go
As lady sleep is calling calling
I find myself faling falling
In the morning the words will come again
The words sitting in my head
All waiting to pour themselves out
As though they write themselves
Hold me now, sweet lady
I am ready for slumber
no more will I linger in the world
of the real
sweet lady calls me
willing I go
virginiastark 