(Poem 49 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I feel comfortable in my own skin
and when I’m not, like when the sky
is inside me and I am surrounding the
sun and moon, or when the ocean is me
and the wind is my lover holding open the
door to a terrace overlooking the most beautiful
view of wrinkled valleys and snow-white mountains
freckled with the tiniest starry pinpoints of perfection.
@Home Studio – 49th poem of the year
(Poem 47 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I live in a climate that I love
with cool breezes reminding
me to wear a sweater while
sitting outside on my porch.
The seasons announce themselves
proudly with soft snowfalls,
flower festivals, sunshine,
and hillsides covered in amber.
No longer do I dread the
pain of a Texas summer
with solar flare-esque heat
and drought dry days of
endless monotony painted
dull brown and lifeless.
I wake up each morning
breathing in air free of
hayseed allergens and
cedar pollen intent on
murder and mayhem.
Only fresh scents of flowers
blooming in our garden
next to cilantro, green onion,
and mint call out to me.
And the evening fires
we light (because their
crackle is the perfect
juxtaposition to the crisp
night air) are the right
way to end the day
and toast the sweetness
of this blessed life.
Rebekah Marshall @ – 47th poem of the year
(Poem 46 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I live in a village
with supportive women
surrounding me
and I am loved.
A miniature donkey
greets me like
a doting dog
begging for treats,
and a chicken
follows me everywhere
I go because she
loves sitting in my
lap while I write.
As a child, I never
longed for this life;
it just happened
when I was busy
doing the business
of being my best
self and nurturing
the guests who
show up in need
of a crust of bread
and a cool glass of
water on their
journey home.
@Home Studio – 46th poem of the year
(Poem 45 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“You are your own alchemist, constantly transmuting dull, lifeless molecules into the living embodiment of yourself.” Deepak Chopra’s The Way of the Wizard
Constant flux and empty space
are the stuff of solidity of which
we are made and insist are real.
Whereas, the cloud of energy,
shadow and light, layers of love
around a timeless soul core are
supposedly fantasy imaginings.
Whose version of truth gains
most traction has less to do with
rightness and more to do with
convenience, since substantial
introspection is hard and surface
knowledge is easier to tolerate.
Turning yourself into gold is an
alchemy most are unwilling to
pursue, and would rather label
distasteful or nonsensical than
undertake an inconceivable quest.
@Home Studio – 45th poem of the year
Chopra, Deepak. The Way of the Wizard: Twenty Spiritual Lessons for Creating the Life You Want. New York, United States of America, Harmony Books, 1995, pp.80-84.
Runner ups for the AI alchemy photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 44 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am living a vibrant spiritual life,
full of love and joy, peace and calm.
The paraphernalia of ritual surrounds
me in my cave of books and comfort.
An open door invites a breeze as
animals saunter in and out on a whim.
We check on each other through
thought and glance, caress and scent.
Fanciful shadows from candlelight
play with the eye of an owl who
nestles against his own moon.
Time slips through my hourglass,
but I don’t mind because this moment
is eternally engrained in the white sand.
@Home Studio – 44th poem of the year
Runner ups for the owl moon photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 43 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am at peace with myself and those I love.
No animosity hangs stale in the air,
nor anger brews and steeps in silence.
I have forgiven and released, at least for now,
resentments or regrets I may have nursed.
Prayers of blessing, for protection, of thanks
abound this morning as I start my day.
If I steer clear of them, this love I feel, so pure,
so genuine, might last until lunch time.
@Home Studio – 43rd poem of the year
Runner ups for the at peace with those I love photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 41 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
How many inner yous are holding you hostage?
Fragmented, conflicted, factions at war inside,
causing loneliness and friction in the soul.
Why must you be a jail keeper of your shadow-
selves, instead of a liberator through listening?
Your prisoners are tapping messages on the wall,
pleading with you to respond, show any sign,
become a part of the life-giving conversation.
The only way to defuse the bomb that is you
is to release old pain that has been stored
like dry dynamite waiting to be lit by anger,
to meet and greet these guests in your realm,
recognize their perspectives, and welcome them
to heal while safely residing at your table.
Release them from the dungeons where you
keep them bound and let them drag their
weary selves to the banquet room, their ragged
clothes falling away to be replaced by robes
of shimmering silk, velvet, and lace.
@Genuine Joe’s – 41st poem of the year
Chopra, Deepak. The Way of the Wizard: Twenty Spiritual Lessons for Creating the Life You Want. New York, United States of America, Harmony Books, 1995, pp.71-79.
(Poem 36 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“If titanic forces like gravity and the immense energies that fuel stars manage to coexist without destroying one another, then your own life will be upheld…you are a privileged child of the universe, entirely safe, entirely supported, entirely loved.” -Deepak Chopra’s The Way of the Wizard
Love is often a response to being loved,
as unconditional love happens most when
no conditions have been prescribed.
The only way to truly love another,
is to first love the self that feels unworthy.
The layers of fear that encrust the heart
must be chipped away by a feather touch.
A seeker seeks love like a fish looks for water,
unaware that it pervades and surrounds,
is, was, and will be source and sustenance.
@Home Studio – 36th poem of the year
Chopra, Deepak. The Way of the Wizard: Twenty Spiritual Lessons for Creating the Life You Want. New York, United States of America, Harmony Books, 1995, pp.57-63.
(Poem 35 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Certain hallucinations scurry like
wolf fox spider lizards on the periphery,
while others hover menacingly close.
Some wail a cacophony of muted pain
at the edge of consciousness’ spine,
competing with their counterparts’ whispers.
Knowing they are not tangible threats
does little to calm the heart in the dark,
rather their insubstantial qualities enhance
the mystery surrounding their existence.
They persist like webs of lies tangled,
ever-expanding and contracting in
sympathy with sleep, though negatively
correlated and eager to maintain a foothold.
@Home Studio – 35th poem of the year
Runner ups for the AI Creepy Hallucinations photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 30 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
No governing body can rule our spirits once
we have had an out-of-body experience
transporting us to realms of celestial bodies
that remind us we are more than mortal bodies
or just a warm body being body-shamed
and selling our bodies for survival.
The beauty of truth is that we have no
body double, nobody exactly like us;
even clones are their own, nor do we
deserve to be treated as such – no matter
what they claim they caught on their
body cams while hollowing out our
body cavities because of our
body odor…body piercings…frequency of
body shots…over our dead bodies.
We must refuse to do perpetual body checks
and shrink ourselves with body wraps
cranking the heat on our body temperature
to make ourselves smaller, then body slamming
ourselves for lack of perfect beach bodies,
our inner mafiosos dropping bodies out of the
body of a plane as punishment for our size,
while pretending to have body positivity.
Our body of work grows in proportion
to our body of knowledge like a vast
body of water when we finally
forget to pay attention to the
body of opinion of the masses aiming
their frigid body language toward any
body politic who chooses their
heavenly body over body building.
When we love, body and soul,
without a jealous bone in our bodies
and believe in the wisdom of others
akin to fruiting bodies, contrary to the
body of evidence doubters spout
claiming body mass index a god…
body snatchers will try to rack up
body counts, forcing people into body bags
with body blows because they are afraid of
somebody, anybody, and everybody who are
bodyguards of our own fate, more concerned with
body heat from bodysurfing galaxies than what
bodies without souls think of our body rolls.
@Home Studio – 30th poem of the year
Runner ups for the AI Mystical Big Bodies photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 