(Poem 254 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Jenni married an Indian man,
painted her white skin brown,
and adopted a Hindi accent.
She wore a simple cotton sari
as though it was a ball gown
and dispensed sage advice
with smooth tilts of the head,
as though born in Mumbai.
@Home Studio – 254th poem of the year (After a dream I had about a white friend of mine completely appropriating Indian culture.)
Runner ups for the Indian Jenni photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 252 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Last night I saw a giant humpback
whale swimming in the sky, diving
deep through the air water to the
ocean floor land where I stood in
awe of its graceful power that both
terrified me and kept me rooted in
place admiring its beauty and grace.
@Home Studio – 252nd poem of the year
Runner ups for the Whales in the Sky photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 247 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Making the call to end a life
weighs heavily on the spirit,
even if the conclusion is an
act of mercy for the beloved
by relieving pain and suffering.
Only those who have spent
years with another in close
proximity, shared their lives
intimately, and were tasked
with taking the initiative to
usher in the end know the
reluctance with which the
decision is made and how
heavy the heart to speak the
truth that life has become a
burden rather than a blessing.
@Home Studio – 247th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Making the Call photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 246 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
COVID’s curse is that it lingers,
hangs menacingly in the air, and
recapitulates its previous threats
with symptomatic diminishment.
Not as serious, less deadly, return
to work after only five days now,
means everyone shares the virus
and those concerned are viewed
as disproportionately cautious.
Do they remember the terror so
recently fresh to those whose
cats lost their owners and children
lost their grandmothers and we
lamented the death counts daily?
This time when my husband got
sick and I could not touch him
for a week, I still checked to make
sure he was breathing and sheltered
in place and social distanced,
though no one uses that language
these days anymore…so 2020 of me.
Perhaps it is the lack of the sense
of smell that was stolen from me
or the worsened sense of vision
that was purloined or the lessened
oxygenation ability that was pilfered
or possibly the energy I once had
to function all day that was looted
after my fourth run-in with the
offender who is nothing more than
an unwelcome, tiresome loiterer.
@Home Studio – 246th poem of the year
Runner ups for the COVID photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 237 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Analog externality boxes
technical materials into
physical reality’s system.
Numeric-alpha notecards
are self-referential links
with limitless possibility.
Arbitrary internal branches
flow from trees both chaotic
and ordered with fluidity.
Indexing a map of keys and
values connects the leaves
on the branches on the trees.
Ordered randomness forms
from a system written one
structured thought at a time.
@Home Studio – 237th poem of the year
Scheper, Scott. Antinet Zettelkasten. Greenlight, LLC, 2022.
Runner ups for the Antinet photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 236 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
https://images.app.goo.gl/xLWcHpsbnEBDJaPx9 https://images.app.goo.gl/R6w1x8wuUVKRu5Nu8 https://images.app.goo.gl/GT53vsWyqN3gAkCP8
Emily in Paris
wears couture,
and speaks very
little French beyond
je ne comprends pas.
Nonsensical fantasy,
masquerade balls,
friends to lovers,
pregnant brides
leave grooms at
the altar to run off
to Greece with
another woman,
lovers’ triangles–non,
lovers’ pentagons.
Galas and lunches,
gorgeous people,
a French chef,
oh là là.
Silver-voiced
roommates who
sing Enchanté,
more fashion than
one decadent femme
could possibly possess,
merci beaucoup,
and everyone she
meets has that
je ne sais quoi
that Americans
simply do not
understand.
@Home Studio – 236th poem of the year (After watching Emily in Paris.)
Star, Darren, et al. Emily in Paris. Widescreen. Los Angeles, CA, Paramount, 2021.
(Poem 234 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Nearing dusk in the
falling in love time
of year when we said
our goodbyes longer
than was necessary,
a UFO floated above,
slowly, gracefully, for
a machine so large,
its triangular shape
at once distinct and
completely unclear.
The size of a city block,
it made no sound,
shone no lights, nor
revealed exhaust,
but simply hovered
like a kite out for a
leisurely jaunt taking
a moment to survey
the neighborhood
from the best vantage
point in the clear sky.
My lover and I pointed
heavenward in awe and
disbelief, unsure of the
images our eyes relayed
to our brains, unable to
fully process a craft of
solid black smoothness
suspended in disbelief
as gently as a cloud,
then race north and out
of sight like a memory.
@Home Studio – 234th poem of the year (David and I saw a UFO one evening in 2013 or 2014, when we were still dating.)
(Poem 232 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/SD7SWc https://gencraft.ai/p/rFOMfX
My granddaughter admitted
school was off to a rough start.
I asked her what was wrong,
and her answer broke my heart.
She said there was a mean girl
who was excluding her at lunch.
She had to sit all by herself,
which felt like a gut punch.
I asked if the only other
black girl in her class
stood up for her or reached out,
but that did not come to pass.
Why can’t children include others?
Why must they make it so hard?
I guess it’s human nature to fear,
and be a bully in the school yard.
We talked about some things to try
and a few days later I checked in.
Not only were things going better,
But the girl was now her good friend.
@Home Studio on – 232nd poem of the year
Runner ups for the Mean Girls photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 231 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
It’s a Starbucks Sunday kind of day
with a Texas August outside and
chilled artificial air cooling us in our
fishbowl drinking iced tea and pink
fluffy milkshakes with fancy names
like Strawberry Cream Frappuccino.
Fellow goldfish scurry from their cars
into the inside where it is safe and
comfortable with the sounds of music
and laughter, frothing and cash
registers, clip clop of flip flops, and
pleasant conversation that dips and
swells and matches the happy serenity.
@Starbucks Studio – 231st poem of the year
(Poem 230 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Hot pot evening
broth burns tongue
warms bellies
fills contentment
noodles, mushrooms,
thinly sliced beef,
tofu, egg dumplings,
sprouts, fish balls,
onion, bok choy,
spicy or really spicy
are the options
because my daughter
is the hostess.
@Home Studio – 230th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Hot Pot photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 