(Poem 135 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Photographs taken by Rebekah J. Marshall 5/3/24
What in the world
kind of space-age
contraption is this?
Not found on a
movie set or at a
Comicon convention,
a float in a parade
or on display in a
futuristic museum.
No, just sitting pretty
in an HEB parking
lot like it’s waiting
for its alien pilot
to finish grocery
shopping and climb
back in before lifting
off to start the long
flight home to Venus.
@Home Studio – 135th poem of the year
(Poem 134 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
There’s nothing better than
candid shots of a 5-year-old.
The sublime modeling poses
inspire joy – pure silliness gold.
Everyone else might smile or
throw awkward peace signs.
Not a 5-year-old, oh no, their
forced presence turns to whines.
And if you know what’s good
for you, you’ll let them leave
because if you think you’ll get
good pics, you are really naïve.
@Home Studio – 134th poem of the year
(Poem 133 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
You are not the kind of book with
a slick jacket I can collect on my shelf;
nor can I mark my place with sticky notes,
gum wrappers,
or old receipts.
You are an audio book with raucous
laughter, one-liner quips of witty dialogue,
random philosophical musings about religion,
and societies
latest great failings.
Sometimes I need to slow the playback
speed and crank up the volume to discern
the subtle nuances of your narration and tune
my ear to
your frequency.
Other times I realize you’re on full
blast in the middle of a raunchy scene in
public rather than coming through my headphones
like a
gentleman.
@Home Studio – 133rd poem of the year
(Poem 132 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
When my husband stops at Bucee’s
on road trips, he always brings me
home Beaver Nuggets, the sea-salted
caramel kind that I love so much.
I have told him many times not to
get them for me because they are
too fattening, but he knows better
than to listen to me when I say silly
things like that and buys them anyway.
Come to think of it, I’m shaped a bit like
Bucee the fluffy beaver, so I wonder if
his stuffing is beaver nuggets like mine.
@Home Studio – 132nd poem of the year
(Poem 131 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My granddaughter left a gift
of lavender bath salts for me
on my desk with a sweet little
message written in half cursive
half print on a sticky note.
She left one for her DāDā,
and probably everyone else
in the house as well, because
she loves to leave treats for
others when she finds a way.
I am glad my prickly, lovely,
argumentative, emotional,
explosive, beautiful, forgetful
girl has a heart full of love.
@Home Studio – 131st poem of the year
(Poem 130 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“Vengeance is mine,” sayeth Ceasar, until his
apemanity kicks in and he is able to be better
than human and allow mercy to unfold naturally.
Who gets to determine the value of a life on
this rock hurtling through space we call home?
Does intellect trump simple existence or one
form of communication imply worth over another?
Is birdsong less a language than human speech
or an elephant’s rumble less valid than words?
Someone I know once said their life would not
be affected by animals going extinct and it
made me sad because I believe the tiny pieces
of our humanity that perish with each species
we forget to save hasten our own souls’ decay.
@Home Studio (after watching War for the Planet of the Apes at Greg’s house with Greg and his family, Debbie, and Celinda on 5/18/24) – 130th poem of the year
Matt Reeves et al., War for the Planet of the Apes. Los Angeles, CA, 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2017.
Runner ups for the War of Apes photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 129 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
New York David is decisive.
He attends business meetings
and lunches with clients and
visits rose gardens simply to
see the sights as a tourist.
New York David stays in hotels
and spends evenings at bars
being someone’s wingman.
He’s an expert in a field I do
not fully understand the
particulars of, nor do I want
to invest the energy to
understand because life is
too short…all I know is that
New York David has planes to
catch and important matters
to settle and will be home
Thursday with his suitcase
and weariness ready to
turn back into Texas David who
lounges in pajamas at home
with his wife and dogs.
@Home Studio – 129th poem of the year
(Poem 128 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
One, two, three…maybe four
prescriptions need to be filled
because I grow old and less
able to take pride in health
and vigor like I used to, as though
I somehow earned the youthful
ease with which my joints bent,
and my muscles contracted
instantly, and every sinew
responded to my whim with
instant graceful movement;
those people who complained
of aches and stiffness were
somehow at fault for their
functional inadequacies and
I did not recognize my future
reflection in their eyes because
that woman’s lined face was
contorted with pain.
@Greg’s house – 128th poem of the year
(Poem 127 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Jump off a building,
hang out of a plane,
get shot from a cannon;
it sounds insane.
The unknown people
who pull the stunts
deserve to receive
the credit for once.
They make the actors
look like heroes for real
with dangerous magic
and feats surreal.
All the risk,
none of the fame,
light them on fire
to play the game.
@Home Studio (after watching The Fall Guy with David, Boaz, and Ariel at the theater) – 127th poem of the year
Leitch, David. The Fall Guy. 87 North Productions, 2024.
(Poem 126 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The oak trees stand guard,
keeping bothersome reality
at bay, ensuring sanctuary
for these tireless artists of
word and story, providing
respite from judgment long
enough for imagination to
begin the process of creative
unfolding, for that is the
only way the art is born
fresh and raw, unfiltered.
Yes, the work of shaping,
peeling, whittling away the
excess will be done to perfect
and sculpt the mass into
something more palatable,
but the first bloody moments of
pain and relief, joy and confusion,
brilliant bursts of kaleidoscopic
invention spilled out into the
universe deserve to be protected.
The oak trees understand
their assignment and take their
oaths very seriously, and for
their loyalty, I am grateful.
@The Writing Barn: Buddha Hall – 126th poem of the year
rebekahjmarshall 