(Poem 53 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am immersed in creativity daily
the way my dog is absorbed in the
smells of the morning leading him
on a one-track hunt for something
novel, and if all else fails, to discover
again the thing he found yesterday
that probably needs to be bothered
some more because when inspiration
strikes, one must follow the nose.
@Home Studio – 53rd poem of the year
(Poem 52 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I do work that I feel confident doing.
It stretches me and can be a complicated
puzzle that feels unsolvable at times,
but I am fully cognizant of my abilities,
able to slow my pulse, take a deep breath,
and start at the very beginning because
Julie Andrews says that’s a very good
place to start, and she knows things.
Old dogs can learn new tricks, though
they might need some accommodations
to help them master the same skills.
Honestly, whomever thought to suggest
phrases like neutral face and thinking-face
when hovering above emojis not only
blessed those of us who struggle to
read faces, but those of us unaccustomed
to reading little circular yellow faces
as part of our regular workday because
we grew up with rotary phones, and
being able to metaphorically clutch my
pearls by clicking on a gasp emoji
might come in quite handy someday.
My grandmother worked in the tech
sector via telecommunications back
when switchboard operators used
call signs like Capital 5 instead of
area codes and you could call an
actual human to ask for the time of day.
She never imagined she would add
butterfly emojis as her call sign in messages
she would send to her great-great-
granddaughter someday, and I never
imagined I would be helping AI
improve her reasoning skills, but I
come from a long line of women who
know how to adapt, are not afraid of
exploring the unknown, and will learn
what we need to learn to take care of
this next generation of forward thinkers.
@Home Studio – 52nd poem of the year
(Poem 51 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am happy and in love with my partner.
Choosing to love is not easy when he
forgets to put his towel in the hamper,
leaves a greasy cast iron skillet on the stove,
lets the rain destroy my box of mementos,
or flings open the door startling me again.
Falling in love happens effortlessly when he
brags about me in front of his friends,
asks how he can support me as I grieve,
holds me close and lets me cry until I’m spent,
and makes time to play with our grandchildren.
Remembering to love is not simple when he
refuses to argue/walks away from my anger,
chews too loudly while leaving crumbs,
forgets what I’ve told him and blames me,
or acts irritated when asked to clean.
Being in love is a piece of cake when he
takes me to coffee shops to write and sip tea,
laughs unabashedly at TikToks with me,
says I’m smart and shows he values my ideas,
and is a good sport with my giant family.
I am happy and in love with my partner.
@Home Studio – 51st poem of the year
Runner ups for the AI hands (which AI really struggles with for some reason, so these are really funny) photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 50 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am a woman of integrity.
What you see is what you get—
the whole package wrapped up
in flaws, sewn together with
duct tape and staple-shaped
scars but built to endure adversity.
My O-rings maintain elasticity
no matter the cold they endure,
resilience practically my middle
name, so fire away and prepare
to launch; what could go wrong?
@Home Studio – 50th poem of the year
(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 48 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My Mema passed away this morning. I had the privilege of spending 50 years in her presence. I will miss her something fierce. She has a husband she was married to for over 70 years, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren, not to mention every other possible connection to people far and wide.
I lotioned your feet, then hands
with white jasmine-scented
Bath & Body Works Miriam gave me
and tucked you in the way you like,
brushed your hair and read you your texts,
then some Bible verses of comfort—
Isaiah 40, the first one that surfaced.
The steady sounds of the ICU create
a strangely soothing white noise as a
backdrop to your labored breaths.
Lydia is here again to hold your hand
just one more time; one of many
one more times over the last few days
because each time could be the last.
The you I know is no longer here,
but the shell remains and deserves
gentle petting and reassurance.
Goodness knows how many times
you had to ‘there, there’ me in the last
50 years, buoying my spirits and righting
my sails with your steady faith and calm.
Boaz sat vigil until I arrived, and your
children and husband will take over after
I leave — we are all branches of a grand
candelabra you have lit with exuberance,
spreading across states and time, thankful to
have been influenced by the life you lived
and the love which from your cup overflowed.
@ICU Room 1 St. David’s Round Rock Hospital & Home Studio – 48th 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:
rebekahjmarshall 