Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Four, Poem Number Twenty Four: “Want”

Sorrow
does not appear merely when
something terrible occurs.
It is what fills the soul
when there is an absence
of a particular joy.

Sometimes
I just want someone to run
their fingers through my hair,
because, God knows,
it’s been so long since I slept well
and a warm thigh will always trump a cold pillow.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Three, Poem Number Twenty Three: “Alarmed”

I woke up this morning
weeping
I don’t know why
perhaps
it was over
a dream I can’t
remember
or
a dream never
realized

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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, 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 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 Eleven, Poem Number Eleven: “Jude, The Patron Saint, Falls In Love”

These are not Halcyon days and nights
for those wearing exposed hearts
stitched clumsily to their arms.
They should be afraid
or at least alert;
put up your guard!
I say.

The hospital volunteer in her vermilion stripes and exhibitionist skirt,
offers to help the ailing and hapless but even worse
our body’s defenses are low.
She infects this vulnerable man,
an unprotected soldier sans armor
caught in her barbed wire,
destitute.

Like a dentist, she comes in grinning, porcelain, smiling innocence
brandishing tools and clamps and other things that are good for my health.
And if I’m a good boy, here’s a sweet, except
my molars shatter every time
they bite down on your
hard candy,
doctor.

Another role, another face, she fills the shoes gracefully, a glass slipper
forms around her foot, molten glass never burning the skin.
Instead the clear membrane embraces it, thankful to have been chosen.
Until the day the scuffs and the dullness
become embarrassing
and she kicks it off
shattering it.

At last, a waitress comes around to deliver the check,
and the price is hefty, perhaps too high to pay.
She knocks over a bottle of wine yet
her charm is disarming so
I don’t mind the stain.
It all trickles down
to the bottom.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Nine, Poem Number Nine: “Tonight and Tomorrow”

Tonight the moon looks like a flashlight peeking out from a closet bulging with grey suits.
Tonight the moon looks like a night light obscured by cobwebs in spooled loops.
Tonight the moon looks like a pupil less eye judging our every move.
Tonight the moon looks like the only clear spot on a magnificent bruise.

Tomorrow the sun will shine like the second hand cufflinks on a poor man’s suit.
Tomorrow the sun will burn like not being kept in the loop.
Tomorrow the sun will warm like an awkward first kiss when you make your move.
Tomorrow the sun will heal all but a damaged heart’s bruise.

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