5 Comes Early

Five comes early.
Five comes early when you can’t sleep.
Why? Just anxious about the day or stressed about bills to pay.
Sleep is always just out of reach,
sitting over there having a cup of tea.
It looks at me from time to time,
looking at it’s watch……waiting for five.
Five comes early.

Five comes early when it is three and sleep finally decides to get into bed with you.
Tea? It has had enough tea. It wants to sleep.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
It wants to sleep and sleep past five.
Five comes early when you go to sleep at three.
Sleep fights at five. Why?
Because.
Five comes early.

Five comes early as you roll out of bed wondering if you ever really slept.
Dreamless, haunted and lifeless, the day begins.
Sleep taunts you all throughout the day.
It snubs it’s nose at five. It wants to stay and stay it does.
All day.
Why?
Because…Five comes early.

I will die at home, as I sleep, on a Friday.

NAPOWRIMO # 2 write a poem predicting your own death.

Peaceful  I will go.
I will die at home, as I sleep, on a Friday.
That is how I want to go.
Let me slip uneventful into the underworld.
Sprites and angels and heavenly bodies welcome me
with open arms and mellifluous voices.
Let me cross the dark abyss on a sailing ferry
complete with all my favorite niceties.
From escargot to wine and books….
From Paganini to shoes and lamb.
The risen lamb. The only lamb.
Salvation lamb.
Let me sail away with these things gambolling behind my eyes.
Let the smell of the sea be the last I draw in.
Let the waves gently rock me back and forth.
No fanfare needed.
No CSI. No NCIS. No “CLEAR.”
Just silence and a gentle release of my hand.
Peaceful is how I want to go.
I want to die at home, as I sleep, on a Friday.

Darkness Danced In

NAPOWRIMO DAY 1. A POEM USING TITLES FROM 3 BOOKS YOU HAVE ON YOUR BOOKSHELF.

Darkness danced in.
Trees washed in the wind.
The witch of Cologne languished,
engulfed in acts of unspeakble sin.

Centuries old and with teeth yellowed as cheese,
The secret, untold, festered.
Wild.
And Free, like weeds.

Down, down to a watery grave.
Condemned to the dark for the rest of her years,
She glided down.
Down into the deep.

Silent.

Silence eveloped her.
Silence embraced her.
Silence looked back at me, cold and ice blue.

I saw hollow eyes that yearned to sleep.
But.
It would take a thousand years to emerge from the pit.
A thousand years to get out of that pit.

NaPoWriMo 2011

I am going to begin this for 2011. Already a day late but I will catch up. I look forward to this exercise of poetry that will defintely expand and stretch my mind! let the poetry begin.

Mad at You! NaPoWriMo #25

“I am mad at you!”
You make me want to cry!
“I am mad at you!”
I want to make YOU cry!
“I am mad at you!”
Oh! Just go away and die!
“I am mad at you!”
Pop! Knock you to the sky!
“I am mad at you!”
Don’t talk to me! You lie!
“I am mad at you!”
You! You! You wanna know WHY!?
“I am mad at you!”
Cause you ATE the LAST piece of PIE!

©2010 mcjames

Third Eye Clarity

With my third eye I see what I am today.
Today I am a wagon wheel.
I am in the inner spoke.
I am the center hub.
Radiating out from me are jagged, crooked paths.

A woman with her third eye open is a woman who can see.
A woman with a third eye open can be all that she can be.
A third eye makes reflection the order of the day.
Reflection on those jagged spokes, the pathways to who I am today.

I have the time cause it is nearly noon.
And I have all afternoon.
I sit in front of the big wide ocean and face all there is to face.
I lay to rest and put behind and burrow deep within my chest.
I hurl to the bottom of the great abyss, things never to surface again.

My two eyes are getting clear again,
The scales are falling away.
I owe it all to my third eye.
Third eye clarity.
It is the only way.

Going Home: NaPo WriMo #10

The Going Home celebration was sudden.
Three days before Christmas he was chosen.
Cold and gray and surreal was that day.
A flock of black birds flew his spirit to the sky.
I had to be strong.
I could not cry.

On the gurney he lay, still warm to the touch.
I caressed his face, ran my fingers in his hair.
It was like silk and whiter than before.
He was still warm.
Please wake up.

My plea went unaswered as tears leaked from my eyes.
We had to go.
We had to go.
We had to go home without him.

Planning began with wild calls to all.
I was the one who did it all.
I was strong as others mourned.
My mourning was alone, in the car, on the way home.

My mouth opened to let the gutteral screams out.
Tears flowed like a river.
My own soul was going to fly out.

Four day later the celebration began.
Testimonies, muic and a life in review.
Family together for the last look at you.

In the moment we are one in grief.
Solidarity will be over with you at rest.
You, surrounded by velvet and dressed in your best,
leave just memories of you at your best.

Alone I will visit your memories.
Alone I can visit you.
Time as the enemy brings fading.
Thanks for the dreams and
I thank you for the song.

Sushi, Sweet Sushi: NaPoWriMo #9

Sushi, sweet sushi is a delight to the tongue,
Smooth, creamy textures-my tastebuds, they strum.
Twas my winter mission to sample a ton,
So week, after week, a new kind I did savor.
Like an oriental marionette, I never changed my mind.

Tuna and shrimp and a few california rolls…
Eel was one that startled my tongue with holes!
Sharp, smokey bones gave a wicked massage
Bones, needled talons, with designs on my tome.

One day I changed my plan.
HEY! Bring me the urchin, sea urchin, sea urchin sushi!

It was the worst thing ever, all yellow, puddinged and limp.
Almost an abomination, an assault to my lips.
I looked around and wanted to spit it right out,
but a man with a walker and looking like the gout,
STARED right at me as his lips did flap!
I raised my napkin with my hand from my lap.
The fringe was soft and stained with yellow goo.
I looked at my plate and wished for a lever.
A lever, a lever to rid myself of the sea urchin forever!

The Legacy of Sharpness

Sharpness filled a grandmother’s life.
Knives and knives and cuts from knives.
A grandfather was a violent man.
He loved…just loved to use his hands.

Their lives were a twisted, violent dance.
A dance of her running.
A dance of him chasing.
A dance of sharpness.
The sharpness of knives.

Flesh opening up and showing white meat.
Flesh opening up, soft as butter.
Cuts under breasts, cuts on stomachs,
Cuts on arms, cuts in hands.
Hands grabbing cuts.
Blades slicing thru air.

Cuts on legs and backs of heels.
Cuts made as you ran ahead.
Cuts in throats, yet all survived.
Maimed and scarred for the rest of their lives.

Grand was obsessed with knives.
Knives in bed.
Knives in the bath.
Knives in drawers
Knives everywhere.
Everywhere to cut you dead.

The legacy of sharpness seemed to never dull.
Even the new wife got her share.
But he got his, as she fought back.
The legacy of sharpness dulled a bit after that.
In that new wife he met his match.

National Poem Writing Month

READWRITEPOEM. I think I will participate in this for 2009.  I normally do NaNoWriMo each November. This will be new!  I do write poetry but have never done this.  30 poems in 30 days!