Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Two, Poem Number Twenty Two: “Lunch With A Ghost”

Tonight I am restless,
and tomorrow I will be incomplete;
Last week I had lunch with a ghost,
and perhaps some weekend soon
I’ll take a drive alone,
my passenger seat burdened
with heavy baggage.

I have so many books,
that I use the skinny ones as placeholders
for the bigger, heftier tomes.
They were once small,
everyday surprises, presents waiting to be opened
with the notes she left between the pages
that fit more snugly than
what I’ve replaced them with.

More and more I fill my days with
distractions, work, and time wasters
hoping to mute the booming silence
echoing off the walls and
filling my moments of solitude
with tension and terror and
spine crushing sadness
that will last for as long as
these words remain alive in us.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty One, Poem Number Twenty One: “Calendar Carousel”

Sin fayo, sin fayo,
cada Cinco de Mayo,
salen las hormigas
actuando como descarados.

Pint after pint,
with no shamrocks in sight,
they drink their green beer,
then fights they’ll incite.

Celebrate independence
by burning down your fence.
Fireworks are good for starting
a war as intense.

We can’t always observe
in ways so absurd.
So let’s recognize the spirits
in actions more than words.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty, Poem Number Twenty: “Naked Snow Angels”

I saw it in a dream
or maybe on the internet.
The year I die is 2055.
I have forty two years left.

There are many things I need to do before then.
I want to travel around the world,
set foot on every continent, including Antarctica,
I’ll make naked snow angels, my body unfurled.

I will get cold undeniably,
but no one can stop me, not even the penguins.
They’ll waddle by knowing they have nothing to fear
for I have nothing growing on me resembling a dark grey fin.

Though this poem may seem odd,
full of gibberish and silly lines,
at least I did one of the things I wanted to do before I die.
I wrote about both penguins and my nudity and made it rhyme.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Nineteen, Poem Number Nineteen: “Junior”

To my unborn
and never will be born
Child
I’m not a good man,
I don’t do things right.
This is what keeps me up at night.

Had he been a boy,
here is what I would have said:
Always be responsible and fair.
Never lie, cheat or steal.
Behave in the opposite way that I do.
Love not only yourself but those around you.

Had she been a girl,
I would’ve spoiled her until she was rotten.
Daddy’s little girl surrounded by enough
stuff to keep her happy in her cage
because dating was never going happen.
All boys are dirty, just like your old man.

He would be in little league now
hitting home runs, wowing the crowd.

She would be winning the spelling bee
having no trouble with words like ‘illegitimacy.’

I pray that he doesn’t hold it against me
but that prayer is false
because it was for the best.
No matter how many sad words I write,
I gave him up without a fight

I pray that she won’t hate me
but my empty prayer will be heard by no one
because I don’t believe in God
and He doesn’t believe in me.
So what right do I have to plea?

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Eighteen, Poem Number Eighteen: “This Fix (is Hated)”

After he has chewed the scenery,
After he has sucked on a cigarette,
Out comes the gum.
Pop

Into his mouth it goes.
She’ll be there soon.
He awaits what comes next,
Kiss

Think back now,
Careful with those teeth
That’s not the way the teat likes to be treated
Suck

No, further back
He misses popsicles and lollipops and
Gum in the shape of cigarettes
Puff

No, back,
Mother’s milk, when sour
Cannot nourish the
Mouth

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Seventeen, Poem Number Seventeen: “Plagued”

You are a pervasive rash
that keeps me from sleeping properly,
Awakening me in fits of itch
until I rip my clothes, stitch by stitch.

My nails dig trenches into my thighs,
no amount of ointment or cream
can quell the firestorm raging under my skin.
You’ve turned my body against itself head to shin.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Sixteen, Poem Number Sixteen: “Twins”

You’re a wet cigarette
gone limp in the rain.
I’m a dud pack of matches
devoid of all flame.

You and I shall inherit this planet
since we are scared and meek.
When the strong kill each other with hatchets
we’ll hide in our holes for a week.

We’ll meet on the ground above,
as the last people left on the earth.
It’ll be impossible for us to fall in love
because we’re both afraid of getting hurt.

This is how the world ends
with two lonely people
who cannot be friends
or shelve their damaged egos.

The species will die off with a whimper and a sigh,
and I’ll stroke your hair, begging you not to cry.
I’m sorry I said those things about your weight
I was just upset you ate the last of the cornflakes.

You’re a wet cigarette
Gone limp in the rain
I’m a dud pack of matches
Devoid of all flame.

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