I touch the lock once,
but it’s never enough,
twice feels closer,
but I touch it once more, and again.
The stove is off—off—off.
I lean in, I listen, I doubt.
My ears invent the flame,
though silent, I still hear it.
Hands raw, soap biting.
The burn means I’m safe,
but the safeness doesn’t stay,
so I scrub them again - and again.
Numbers pound inside me.
Odd is wrong, even is much safer.
I slip, I lose track,
so I rewind, over… and over.
I whisper, “it’s fine,” but
I don’t believe me.
The thought gets louder,
it drowns me out.
People say, just stop.
I laugh, but my laugh cracks.
If stopping was easy,
I wouldn’t be here.
The floor creaks behind me—
or maybe it doesn’t.
I turn, I check,
then check again.
And, in one trembling second,
I don’t move, I don’t repeat,
and the silence shakes, then cracks,
and then it’s gone.
routine is my nemesis
schedule is my enemy
I like to change directions in mid flight
being wildly free appeals to me
I do not like to be caught in time restrictions or webs
I enjoy journeying where my feelings take me
repetition and rules I threw out long ago
My days are my own, and I love it so.
No one suggests, directs or manages me.
I am wild and free, so wild and free.
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
You ask why I chose you.
I thought you knew!
I chose you like clean air
Because you refreshed my existence
I chose you like the ocean
Because you regulated the climate of my spirit
I chose you like the sun
Because you nourished my heart’s daily routine
I chose you like the soil
Because you filtered the waters of my life that keep me clean
I chose you like the sanctity of tears
Because you supported my focus and cleared my vision
I chose you like laughter
Because you elevated my mood and provided a mirror for my decisions
You ask why I chose you
Without you I was quite capable of becoming the best version of my soul
But together we merged two lives that rendered us one and whole
I thought you knew…my soul chose you
I looked at the trees.
They moved with the birds, while they chirped and laughed.
Shutting the door, my hand shaking from former caffeine.
I heard music from my room.
It stopped.
My speaker died.
The blinds let the light in and my room smelled good,
like laundry in the morning.
My skin was easy today and my lips soft.
The house was still and my heart at peace.
Days were content and long.
Clean, Coffee, Scripture, Makeup, Work.
My routine is simple.
The only problem,
I am alone.
Sunday, I take out a bowl.
Monday, a spoon.
Tuesday, open a box of Cheerios,
Pour a few in.
Wednesday, the milk.
Thursday, I spoon some in and chew.
Friday, wash the bowl and the spoon.
Saturday, put the bowl back on the shelf,
The spoon in the drawer.
Sunday, I take out a bowl.
And the hearse did rehearse its path,
Though the skeleton held dearly
To his ground, smiling loud.
He was bare - needed a shroud,
With his straight bow, grinned severely.
For it seems, he’ll not move ever.
There’s his calcified stick figure,
Who’s not shamed in the least.
For on earth, his time’s increased.
Seems he’s stuck in mortis-rigor.
May we be blessed to understand
from one big moment to the next
most of our life is living the moments in between..
and perhaps the best way to a happy life
is to find the beauty in the routine.
The clock ticks, and I sit, it’s 1 AM,
A silent treatment to the passing time.
Tomorrow, something I cannot touch.
Where will I be? Who will I become?
The question haunts me but calms me
Like quiet waves.
Yet I remain here,
In this cold chair, at this cluttered desk,
Staring at the pages.
The same as yesterday.
The world outside spins,
And yet I’m here,
Bound to the routine I know is hard.
But I remain full of hope
That pushes me forward, a false promise.
I study words, equations, dates,
As if they hold the key to my future.
But deep inside, I know
No chapter, no test,
At the end of the day,
I’ll still be here with nothing.
Tomorrow is a question,
A riddle I will never solve.
Yet I crave to solve it.
Now it’s 2 AM.
One hour has passed.
I am still here.
Still I wait with hope,
Though I know it’s useless.
The Lep, has washed hands of St. Pat’s, does lean
and fiddles in space, against tree, routine.
The pot at the end of sun,
was found a bit late; one won.
Lep’s blind to the coot who handles gold-green.
After his fiddling, is over and done,
Lep gets to a-counting, his coins, for fun.
He scratches his head, and blows
his stack, as he rips his clothes.
On hunt, Lep will go, round up rat, with gun.
Not fair, when the sun has gone down; coot cheats.
Now poor, Lep must find ev’ry coin on streets.
The pot, has been stirred, like bees;
emptied by the rat - he’ll seize.
Lep’s gun (is a cane) - an instrument that beats.
The fool and Lep’s money was found..tick-tock.
“If you found my gold, before snooze of clock,
then all would be fair…it’s not.
If I have a gun, you’re shot.
Instead, you, I cane, outline you with chalk.”
Old coot, parts with gold, awakens dizzy.
He coughs, and he laughs, at the Lep’s tizzy.
Next year, he must beat the clock.
and keep, in pocket, a glock.
For gold, the rat baits; the fiddler’s busy.
Life is full of daily routine
just things we do each day
they can get pretty boring
but they are required come what may
We have a set of things to do
that needs discipline to carry out
but other situations cross our path
needing our attention to what's about
But even when the days is just ordinary
humdrum as we call it here
there's a purpose for everything
so keep prodding on and never fear
Sometimes in the routine of life
extraordinary reveals itself so clear
then you think where did it come from
keep alert to your listening ear
There's a picture here by routine
that opens your eyes to see
in life before death look ahead
it may be what will set you free
In the kitchen, pots clatter and pans clang,
The blender whirs as the kettle hisses and sings,
A spoon clinks in a mug, stirring tea,
While toast pops up with a little ding!
The cat purrs on the counter, eyes half-shut,
The dog’s tail thumps as it begs for crumbs,
The fridge door squeaks as I grab some jam,
And the bread squishes between my thumbs.
Suddenly, the phone buzzes with a ring,
I yelp and drop my toast—what a sight!
Jam-side down, it lands with a sticky splatter,
And the dog licks it up with pure delight.
Breakfast chaos, a daily dance,
With sounds that play a silly tune.
But in this noisy morning trance,
There’s magic in each messy swoon.
#Onomatopoeia# #OnomatopoeiaPoetryContest#
When I arise in the morning, after “Thank you, God!” I often ask,
Am I fully loaded for this day to meet and complete my many tasks?
Have I spent the necessary time in thoughtful contemplation,
And calmed my overactive mind with deep yoga meditation?
Am I free from negative, nagging dark moods and fitful emotions?
Can I rise to the challenge of this day with faith, praise and devotion?
How I start my day sets the tone and pace of my achievements.
Gratitude, praise, and love are the highest spiritual vibrations.
When I fill my spirit with these before the morning work begins,
I know I am fully loaded and positive waves of faith pave my way
With all the help, encouragement and support I need for the day.
Chula Fleming © August 17, 2024
The walls of despair hides in the dark
Who can phantom the blood guilt of shame?
One moment there is a smile but the night ends in grief
The nightmare of uncertainty rests in the heart of potential
The mind is captured by the caterwaul of regret
Voices refuse to cease due to the human condition
How can one escape from this voracious world?
She slanders her own name
Individualism screams for liberty
Yet, we're trapped by our own understanding
Insanely bad mood
Snippy and snarling
He is four-years-old
Fighting his nap time
Baby sitter folds
He falls asleep
at six o’clock
when parents come
to take him home
grouchy boy
cannot eat
wants his bed
routine
broken
sad
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