My original poetry.
(Poem 119 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My anger used to be the
kind that exploded like an
overheated pressure cooker.
I think it’s because I used
to care; it hurt to feel like
a last resort afterthought.
Now my anger is the kind
that pools in a dirty puddle
and breeds mosquitos.
I think that’s because my
will to care has turned
stagnate, a film formed on
the surface like old milk.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio on 4/29/24 @ 9:39pm – 119th poem of the year
(Poem 118 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My pet alligator is a snuggle bug
and loves to sleep on my bed.
He’s always quick to give me a hug
and listen to the worries in my head.
He enjoys spending time reading books
and watching old movies with me.
He eats anything my mother cooks;
he’s been with me since I was three.
Someday when I have my own kids,
I’ll let him babysit in our home.
He’ll keep them from doing things he forbids
and will never let them roam.
He’ll be an important part of my life
for as long as he’s willing to stay.
He gently, lovingly calms all strife
and improves my world every day.
He is certain to give as much as receive
and prefers listening to rock and roll.
I don’t think he’ll ever want to leave
because he adores climate control.
@Home Studio – 118th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Pet Alligator photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 117 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Who’s to blame for the uprising?
Seeking a guilty verdict for the
ancestor most likely to be the
culprit does little to unenslave
the victims now suffering atrocities.
Wouldn’t the better course of action
be to remake society into a place
of peace and mutual collaboration?
That would be too logical and
require setting aside revenge and
greed, animosity, and hatred,
require communicating, being
vulnerable and open to change,
require accepting the other and
making allowances and space
for differences that require both
understanding and patience.
It would mean providing for those
who can’t provide for themselves,
showing compassion to those who
are weaker, and making room for
those whose ideologies collide.
Be the perpetrator of peace for
the benefit of all, and inflict undying
hope on generations to come.
@Home Studio – 117th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Planet of the Apes photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 116 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
70 is the new 50.
Bike, climb, hike, romance;
the world is your oyster,
the sky the limit.
You can smell the roses
and shoot for the moon,
throw your hat in the ring
and take the bull by the horns.
So, bite the bullet,
but don’t break a leg
because the ball’s in your court,
and it’s time to sing your own praises.
You make your own destiny,
for nothing is set in stone.
Since all bets are off,
pull out all the stops,
make a castle in the sky,
and do everything on your bucket list.
@Home Studio – 116th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Granny Fun photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 115 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
We had a meeting in the kitchen.
I cried and scrubbed the stove.
You told me to take better care of myself.
I scraped burnt cabbage and tomato sauce off a pan.
You left a cabinet open.
I cried some more.
You played with the wind chimes.
I said how much I miss our chats.
You comforted me.
@Home Studio – 115th poem of the year
(Poem 114 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I bought some of that
pheromone perfume to
make my husband love me;
turns out, I don’t need it.
I’m the whole package and
seem to be his cup of tea.
Because my hips are as
wide as the Himalayas and
other assets ample, as well,
I need reminders that for
some men, an ample shape
can be pleasing as hell.
The culture I was raised in
prized a female form with
less meat on the bones;
that leaves a stain on the
heart that’s hard to shake—
dispatched to friend zones.
So, I’ll probably keep buying
the latest aphrodisiacs and
pretty things on TikTok shop,
even though my husband
thinks I’m beautiful and feels
no need to window shop.
@Home Studio – 114th poem of the year
Runner ups for the full-figured white girl photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 113 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
A black and white image slowly
forms in developing solution.
A woman emerges with unkempt
hair and the same gown she’s
been wearing for several days.
The dampness permeating her
garments and droplets beading
on her hair clue her in that she is
standing outside in the elements.
She was meant to be completing
a task, doing something important.
Awareness dawns that she has
not been well for a while now,
how long is undetermined, vague,
but the lifting fog begins to reveal
color, just hints of expression,
a reminder that there is life
beyond the slog of slow-motion
survival she has been swimming
through indefinitely unmoored.
The awakening is gradual, subtle,
and incremental, yet essential.
@Home Studio – 113th poem of the year
(Poem 112 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
A caterpillar is scooting along,
minding her own business,
munching on leaves and
feeling the cool breeze,
when she suddenly has a thought;
“What if I could fly away?”
All her life she’s crawled along,
inched on her belly,
viewed the world from below.
How does she even begin
to imagine the possibility of flight,
envision a different future
than the one she has always known?
A gentle gnawing that begins
in her belly and slowly creeps
its way incrementally to the tip of
consciousness tells her to
cocoon herself in safety,
wall herself away from the scary
change that will come if she
lets herself dream too big.
And there she remains,
turning in on herself,
visualizing a new way of being,
letting the idea of a new reality
wash through her like
rain and pain, and the strain
of the old self transforming
becomes nearly unbearable.
That is when the miracle happens…
new life unfurls,
wings stretch heavenward,
there is an impulse to leap,
to flap, to throw fear to the sky,
and become who she is meant to be.
Runner ups for the caterpillar lightbulb photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 111 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Don’t you wonder
what the animals do
when we aren’t watching
their every single move?
Do they drive our cars
and talk on our phones,
eat at our restaurants
or take out bank loans?
Maybe they wear clothes
and chew bubble gum,
carry around umbrellas
and play a snare drum.
Do they smoke cigarettes
and walk on the streets,
wear sleek looking hats
and sleep on soft sheets?
Perhaps they laugh at us
while telling lame jokes,
then pretend ignorance;
it’s all a big hoax.
Yes, the animals out there
are living double lives,
staring blankly at us,
giving each other high fives.
Runner ups for the magical animals photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 110 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Matilda was dealt an awful hand,
the most neglectful parents in all the land.
When finally caught by the powers that be,
she went to school, which filled her with glee.
Sad to say, the school was the worst,
run by a tyrant who believed kids were cursed.
Poor Matilda was viewed as an evil child,
so she made up stories that were truly wild.
A librarian was her biggest fan,
who encouraged her to take a stand.
Then her teacher Ms. Honey cheered her on,
and eventually all the threats were gone.
Now Matilda has a family and friends,
a happy school, and love that never ends.
She even has a house and a yard,
so she can continue her role as a bard.
@Home Studio – (after watching the musical Matilda with Debbie and Celinda) 110th poem of the year
Warchus, Matthew, director. Roald Dahl’s Matilda the Musical film. TriStar Pictures, 2022.
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