(Poem 189 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Catoptromancy
Dark room
Single candle
Running water
Spin 3 times
Look in the mirror
Ghostly corpse
Chanting her name
Bloody Mary
Bloody Mary
Bloody Mary
@Home Studio – 189th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Bloody Mary photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 188 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I remember the sound of cicadas
as we found frogs in the mud on the
banks of the creek we weren’t really
supposed to be playing in because
my father was certain we were going
to somehow drown in the three feet
of water that trickled and pooled
and invited us siren-like to the middle.
I remember pretending to like fishing
because my older cousin Tim was
collecting worms, and I wanted him
to think I was mature for a little girl
and not squeamish at all about the
wriggling, squirming, slippery, slimy
bits that had to be impaled tip to tail.
I remember the grown-ups always
sitting around sipping sweet tea in
the most boring looking way and
doing nothing but talking and eating
and occasionally laughing or yelling
at one of us to shut the door or quit
coming in and out, and I was certain
I would never want to sit around like
them and be boring when I grew up.
@Home Studio – 188th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Creek photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 187 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
You doin’ ok?
the barista asks someone looking at the menu
You’ve got to be hot because I’m hot
my husband says to me
Unidentifiable ethnic-sounding earth music plays
over the speakers chanting comforting spells
A soprano’s laugh bubbles up above all the other sounds
I’m fine
a tenor responds to someone who asks
My husband whispers or raps or sings to himself
perhaps he is reading out loud, it could be any of the above
because he is rarely silent for long
You’ve lost one of your lenses
a woman says to the elderly man she cares for
I know, he says
does she think he is unaware that he can only half-see?
freeway
I was trying to draw you
spiral
London Fog
to be clear
I think we all know
it’s a reservoir
keep going, Dude
really hammer it home
when I’m on stage
I’m not racist or homophobic
not on purpose
there is a monster
how cute
Chai
Hello
A blender and cups being bussed are the percussive elements that were missing.
Tea-Jasmine
Someone knocks loudly on the restroom door
one-two-three-four in quick succession
and a phone whistles
it just got real
@Genuine Joe’s – 187th poem of the year
Runner ups for the coffee shop photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 184 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/rUA3Kt https://gencraft.ai/p/k2G0lW https://gencraft.ai/p/UdPZrD
My mother’s voice was
a bit exasperated at the
absence of anyone home.
I did not hear the door
behind her as she left,
but hurried to let her know
I was there and say hello.
I opened the front door;
she was already in her car
but she turned off the engine
when she saw me and
decided to come back in,
or so I thought…
In her reality, she just
arrived, had not yet stepped
foot in the house, had felt
no annoyance at the absence
of anyone and made no sound.
What future echo did I hear
that never even happened?
@Genuine Joe’s – 184th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Echoes photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 181 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/VlE1pf https://gencraft.ai/p/51XcWB
According to society,
a woman of a certain
age should guard her
propriety and seek only
suitors who are older.
If she happens to find
herself drawn to a man
of younger persuasion,
she is depicted by those
who have opinions as a
wild hunter who laid
in wait to pounce on
some unsuspecting
man-child and forced
him to mind his manners.
When the roles are
reversed, there is little
batting of eyes because
double standards always
seem to benefit those
who sit on the biggest
thrones in the patriarchy.
@Home Studio – 181st poem of the year (after watching The Idea of You.)
The Idea of You, Showalter,Michael, Amazon Prime Video, 16 March, 2024, Hathaway, Anne.
Runner ups for the Cougar photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 180 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/3PTiet https://gencraft.ai/p/rcoJcL
The mother does what
any mother must do after
receiving the worst news
imaginable; she mounts
her dragon and flies as far
as she must for confirmation
with her own eyes that her
son has been taken from
this world in a vicious attack.
She must reckon with the
knowledge that all could
have been prevented by
her every step of the way,
so she has herself to blame
for her baby ending up in the
belly of the enemy’s beast.
A son for a son will become
the battle cry that brings
only blood to the realm.
Winter is truly coming.
@Home Studio – 180th poem of the year (after watching Season 2, Episode 1 of House of the Dragon)
Condal, Ryan and George R. R. Martin, creators. House of the Dragon. HBO Entertainment and Warner Bros., 2024.
Runner ups for the Grieving Mother photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 179 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Makin’ bacon
workin’ overtime.
So over
having none,
time to
play, dough
to spend,
breathing room,
lack of
lack, more
of plenty,
less of
less, unless
by choice,
space to
be alone
with creativity.
@Home Studio – 179th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Overtime photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 177 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/03OiGx https://gencraft.ai/p/G96GID https://gencraft.ai/p/BbJsEh
Aches and pains
pains and aches
knees and hips
whatever it takes
hard to bend
walking is tough
getting off the
floor is enough
trying to focus
on a word
when agony strikes
is quite absurd
take deep breaths
slow your heart
please pace yourself
if you’re smart
not enough spoons
too many knives
push too hard
here come hives
snap pop crack
click rattle break
every slight movement
injury at stake
I would like
to cocoon here
or float in
space a year
to maybe be
from gravity free
that is now
my earnest plea
@Home Studio – 177th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Aches and Pains photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 176 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Beyond the veil of the living
is the plain of the between,
where people linger after death
unable to be seen.
Only those who can’t let go
reside in this murky space,
but each lost soul has a story to tell
if someone can show them grace.
A Ghost Whisperer is sometimes summoned,
a spirit’s only hope,
communing with the voiceless ones
to help the living cope.
For usually, those who remain
feel burdened by an unexplained weight.
No sense can be made of their grief
or their loved ones’ undetermined fate.
If a satisfactory resolution
can be settled upon at last,
the ghost will finally release their hold
and accept that they have passed.
@Home Studio – 176th poem of the year (Inspired by the television show The Ghost Whisperer.)
Hewitt, Jennifer Love, Ghost Whisperer, Sander/Moses, CBS, 2005-2010.
Runner ups for the Ghost Whisperer photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 175 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“At the level of the ego, we struggle to solve our problems. Spirit sees that struggle is the problem.” – The Way of the Wizard
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/7XIJKd https://gencraft.ai/p/bhZDFJ
The madman who lived in a
hut deep in Camelot forest
was named Will for a reason.
He claimed to have no king,
despite Arthur ordering him
to come forth and explain.
According to his wife, grief
had walled him up after his
son died in a tragic accident.
The man named Will decided
to perish unless God himself
appeared and made plain
the reason for suffering.
Arthur sat all night speaking
with the man, who he felt
closer to than anyone else
in his kingdom, for he keenly
felt the suffering of his people
the poor, the sick, the burdened.
Arthur shared the wisdom
Merlin taught him, rather than
struggle against evil, realize
that it does not actually exist.
We create heaven and hell
with our own will, invent duality,
evil and good, light and shadow,
chase our tails to our own
detriment and create despair.
We must allow our will to be
free to choose to reject this
duality and permit unity to be
born in our hearts and minds,
rather than sealing ourselves
up in a hut deep in the woods
of grief where we await our deaths.
@Genuine Joe’s – 175th 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.123-128.
Runner ups for the Forest Hut photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 