A Poem-A-Day Celebration

Poem submission by doodlebimbee

Her life was a string of awkward moments no one else remembered.

nobody said,

“Who is this 

Chameleon Girl?” when she entered a room they pretended not to notice her.

And she pretended to be a ghost.

She walked through hallways filled with glances that warped around and through her

always going somewhere

never where she was but she took up more space than a ghost.

She had a room full of memories that didn’t belong to her. 

Sometimes she made up stories about the girl who lived there.

Sometimes

she looked at photos of fickle smiles and wondered,

Who is this

Chameleon Girl?

Poem submission by asimplenobody

From the bowels of the dark room
came “I’ll do it later.”
Its source, the quiet mumble of
The Procrastinator.

Its body smelled of dirt and grime,
its hair was unshaven,
the deep black seemed to seep out from
its ungodly haven.

The TV flickered COPS reruns,
frozen food for dinner -
would it get the work done in time,
this great slothful sinner?

The screen was half-filled with some text
of incomplete paper
from long before, when its focus
was so prone to taper.

The mind lost track and did wander
Its thoughts, they were scattered
It was busy scanning Tumblr;
Its right mission - shattered.

So say a prayer for the writer
of this piece so pallid
for The Procrastinator was
author of this ballad.

Poem submission by E.K.Merrick

That ache for the sound of the rain on a tin roof,

to be held tight during a summer’s storm,

or lie awake in each other’s sweat on a

humid Sydney night.

 

Familiar voices, horizons like the scars on my hands

and that soothing lick of a language.

That ache to drive north on the Pacific, speeding away from

the harbour and lights. And for an hour,

there’s nothing,

nothing,

but the gums and the great expanse of the Hawkesbury.

 

And that ache to go back to those small coastal places

that define us more than we want to admit.

These places that we flee from, for fear that their rips

will drag us down and coerce us to stay in the sea,

a life lived as it always has been.

 

But it’s in these places to fall into the

arms of people loved forever,

despite our ever-shifting and contrasting landscapes.

And it’s these small coastal places that soothes this ache,

And it’s there to return home to, smiling. 

Poem submission by life-between-words

Thoughtless, I wander,

aimlessly roam streets

on this spring evening

when I saw it.

 

 Is it a dream –

in this big city

such a tranquil place

– I don’t know.

 

I find myself  looking,

can’t quite define

what or who

I’m looking for.

 

Golden sunset bathes

small windows of serene

houses with

happy shiny people.

 

Somebody’s husband and child

so similar to my

husband and child

who I don’t have.

 

So I’m watching, guarding

these moments

so perfect

in this floating world.

 

Breathe in, breath out, let go.

I bring myself to walk away

side by side with the future

I can’t hold on to.

Poem submission by Melissa Watt

Nipper nearly dips his muzzle
in the cylinder phonograph.
His paws double in the glass.
His head cocks, thoughts
whipping like punchballs
back and forth:
Where does the voice come from?
After all, it’s seeing that’s believing.
Just ask the signalman
or witnesses of mutants,
or anyone who has seen
a clock. We’ve seen time
pass in watches, in Grandma’s
wattle, in dough to waffles, but
it’s no mere bagatelle to tell
what time is. Our foot
on the treadle, we’ve sewn
this construct to our consciousness,
sophistry or gospel, while
so many more Nows
could be possible. Somewhere
I’m polishing cat’s eye
while you hold your stinging
finger, pricked by a teasel.

Poem submission by samcrossman1981

How did you know what you were meant to be?

The Kingfisher said, to his friend in the tree,

I didn’t they said, I was born with this beak,

I can dive really well, for the fish that I seek,

I leap off this branch and with speed and with poise,

I fish for my fish, without making a noise,

The Kingfisher sighed and agreed it’s innate,

But confessed to his friend in the tree, that of late,

Whilst kingfishing, he’s wishing that he’s somewhere else,

Deciding what he wants in life, for himself,

It’s all well and all good, if his family and friends,

Spend their lives, doing just, what their body best lends,

But for him, he can see that although he is built,

as a fishing machine, there’s no feeling of guilt,

When next he wakes up, and he steps from his tree,

He will fly to the heavens, good heavens he’s free.

Poem submission by Cooper Callinan

dull the encounter of being,
tire the senses to a standstill,

maybe we can breathe.

dispose of the intellect,
trade imagination for currency,

maybe we can sleep.

oh, it is a terrible sun to evolve with,
shoes staggering achingly into years.

ah, it is some telling of the paper,
maimed honest to have filled its page.

and of what else, but to
find recovery in inspiration,

as to arm precision down to
its every squint,

when poetics are a best-burnt secret
and sex another sell-out drug.

what of the simmering
madness in silence?

what of its persistence
through music?

speak! such daring sun.

a scorch so quiet.

and a dare works: somewhere
between

warmth and cancer;
beauty and dehydration;

light unto blindness;
god into death.

tell me that bit about heaven
one more time.

tell me that bit with
the lies.

I just can’t see with
these cataract eyes.

Poem submission by Megan Cordero

I curl my feet up

Bone by bone

Until I’ve risen

To my toes

Ankles tight

Calves and thighs

Pressed together

Bottom in

Lift my chest

Shoulders down

Arms curved up

Fingers reaching

To the sky

And I’m floating

Light as air

Bourrée

Piqué

Port de bras

Floating through the clouds

Leaping

And I’m in

Another world

Gliding through the atmosphere

Escaping orbit

Breathing in

Pirouette

Fouette

Turn again

And I’m spinning

Miles away

Arms reach and pull

Back and forth

Torque increasing

And I’m flying

I feel the sun

My hair whips round

My pulse grows quicker

Losing every minute

Glissade

Arabesque

Throwing caution to the wind

Ripping through the stars

Grand jeté

Another lift

Further from the earth

And I’m gone

Somewhere distant

No one can touch me here.

I’m free.

The music stops

Plié

Finish

And I’m back on solid ground

No applause

My toes are bleeding

No tears or remorse

Just re-tape

Stand up straight

And press play again.

Poem submission by chaos-industries

Sheathed in my chest,

Drunk from my blood.

Pain making me move,

Giving reasons to exist.

Gripping the bone hilt

I pull it free, applying 

Crimson tip to paper,

Speaking neither love

Nor blasphemy,

Yet something

There between.

Words flow free

Like blood and tears

Then the well runs dry,

I must dip my quill in ink.

The blade plunges.

New sheath,

New pain,

New poem.

Poem submission by Lynn Jago

Simon thought the ocean a puddle

He stepped in and found himself in trouble

All around strange wonderful creatures

Grotesque and joyful were their features 

.

All seemed to play, fair and square

Nobody pointed, nobody stared

What a pleasant place! thought Simon

When I go back, I must remember where to find them!

.

The land felt so murky after that

He pondered on a rock as he sat

The air was in fact quite smelly, he amused

He felt like a filter being used and abused

.

I must find a way to join the creatures of the sea!

Maybe a mask and snorkel is all I need be

So he attached a long snorkel to his humanly head

And forever more in the sea he made his bed.

.

Poem submission by Kathy Short

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
I don’t know what I wanna say or do.
I don’t even know what I want to be tomorrow,
But I know I want to be like you.

The way that you talk or the way that you walk
Aren’t that important to me.
It’s the kindness and love and strength that you bring
To everyone you meet. 

If I am a doctor, a lawyer, a sailor,
A basketball player or vandal or tailor:
It wouldn’t matter to me, the things that I do,
As long as I did them like you. 

If I have kids of my own, one day down the road,
I will teach them how to have fun.
They will run around, jump off of things,
Playing all day in the sun. 

But when it is dark and clouds shield the light,
They will run inside to me,
And I will be like you, I will teach them
All the things my mom taught me.

Poem submission by John E. Becker

He put boats in my sky
And on that day I died
They floated to heaven
As I followed along
Playing sweet music together
Singing their song

The skies were green
And the seas were blue
Where to sail
Only St. Peter knew
My face reflected
In the waves of truth
The clouds broke free
And we fell through

Now we sailed
Past stars and suns
To a place of kindness
A land without guns
The souls were happy
Yet no faces they had
In a boat all alone
Were those who were sad

Nobody wailed
Nobody cried
It was only their feelings of emotion that died
No subjects to speak
No knowledge to gain
We all knew all
And that way it would remain

Was it happiness that we found
In that place void of sound
Or was it an ending to all
The climax of heavens great call

Poem submission by feeltheillinoise

he hoarded towers,
the trembling mountains
the choked the valleys
of his floor.
in the fires, suffocating,
velvet theater seats are breaking,
and everything that seemed
doesn’t seem so anymore.
maybe it’s the fire’s light-
the need to be remembered
or remember what we were;
in lists and fists and movie scripts,
in everything we’ve got or shot-
or maybe it’s the human plea,
the “let me be” or “set me free.”
we all still live accordingly.  

Poem submission by sutakimu

Poem submission by Elisabeth Watson

It was bread that survived.
Motives undisclosed and
Holy insofar as it was silent.

All other furniture was lost to the war:
Ligament and password, loves
uncataloged and cataloged, the universe
as it was before Copernicus–
innocent as we left it, sleeping on the hearth.

Should you find yourself
Homeless with a stove but not a language,
Salt the flour, salt the water, salt the blue flame and the yeast
Salt the ghosts of your table your chairs your pulpit
Salt the fields and the wells and never look back.

The bread of life
Is the bread your father gave you
When you asked him for a stone.
It is the bread that did not rise when you fled slavery in the night.
The bread that grew while you were sleeping, faithless even to yourself.

Who will come hungry to my table?
The mute heart’s oldest question
sits down, unanswered, to a feast.
What it tastes there, strangely, is God
making for safe harbor,
his whole horizon changed
when he finds himself
anchored beyond all famine
for good.

What you remember at the altar
is your body, not your name.