(Poem 267 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
It makes me so sad
that people hurt
others and break
their own hearts,
that alleviating pain
destroys so many
from the inside out,
and we must endure
misfortune and loss,
especially if we allow
ourselves to love
with the full volume
of our souls.
@Home Studio – 267th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Sad photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 266 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Artifact M123ST was found in the ruins
of one of the few habitations to have
survived the cataclysm mostly intact.
It is a six-sided rectangular box. We are
unable to ascertain the container’s true
purpose but feel certain it must have
been used to store items of religious or
spiritual significance, or it has also been
suggested that they were used as protective
casings for one of their most valuable
assets–sand. It is known that sand became
a valuable commodity prior to the cataclysm,
as it was one of the fundamental, critical
components of building materials in their
world. Undecipherable characters appear
to be inscribed in patterns, though the
sample size is too small to determine if
it is representative of language, or merely
decorative scrawling. Of special interest
is the latching mechanism that holds the
lid of the box closed. A small rectangular
indentation can be pressed, releasing the
latch, which permits the lid to spring open.
A satisfying click indicates the lid has been
closed securely when the latch reengages.
We know little of these primitive people who
lived before the cataclysm, but artifacts such
as these offer a glimpse into their lost culture.
@Home Studio – 266th poem of the year
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/Ne1Ypc
(Poem 264 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Maybe the way
I wash this knife
with precision,
erasing the past
with friction,
soap, and molecules
is in some little way
the meaning of life.
Maybe scraping
the crusty
remnants of drippage
on countertops
until the rag slides smooth
is its own reward
somehow.
Maybe the fact
that hot
water melts
butter residue
from a dish,
inviting it to slip
effortlessly from its former
state
and find freedom
in movement
is the most real
thing I know,
or think
I know,
or want
to know
because knowing
is somehow solid,
purposeful, sure,
and I suspect
that I know
nothing,
or there is nothing
to know,
or knowing
means nothing,
thus,
washing a knife
is the meaning
of life.
@Home Studio – 264th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Washing Dishes photos to accompany my poem (AI had a hard time with this one):
(Poem 261 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am always fascinated
by people unafraid to
share the gruesome
details of their lives
with the rest of us so
we can hold them up
to the light and examine
their every wart and
crack, wrinkle and roll
of fat like specimens.
But the glass jar with
pink paper inside that
made the cover look
warm and inviting was
a trap that forced me
to witness her most
vulnerable moments,
and now I feel sad and
embarrassed for her.
@Home Studio on 9/17/24 @ 7:45pm – 261st poem of the year (After reading Safekeeping-some true stories from a life by Abigail Thomas.)
Thomas, Abigail. Safekeeping -some true stories from a life. Anchor Books, 2001.
Runner ups for the Safekeeping photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 260 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I know how to hold a cockroach.
That is not the problem. The real
problem is in the willingness to
hold the cockroach because I
don’t want to. I absolutely know
intellectually that the cockroach
will not harm me, and I absolutely
know spiritually that cockroaches
are God’s creatures, too, and I
absolutely know psychologically
that the exercise is good for my
psyche and all that jazz, but I
still don’t want to extend my hand
and allow the cockroach to climb
aboard and scurry all around. I
just got chills up my spine thinking
about it because the story is still
too strong that my mind makes up,
and I’m just not ready to let it go.
@Home Studio – 260th poem of the year (After reading How to Hold a Cockroach by Matthew Maxwell.)
Maxwell, Matthew. Illustrations by Allie Daigle. How to Hold a Cockroach – A book for those who are free and don’t know it, Hearthstone, 2020.
Runner ups for the Cockroach photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 257 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My grandmother Mema’s father’s
father Grandpa Carroll was an extremely
superstitious man who came down
hard on anyone who walked under a
ladder or spilled salt without throwing
some over the shoulder or broke a
mirror without taking proper precautions.
Mema did not remember what the proper
precautions were, as she was a small
child when she got harshly scolded for
spinning a chair on one leg in the dining
room, and her father had to come to
her defense, reprimanding his own
father for spouting such nonsense.
He hated black cats, unlucky numbers,
stepping on cracks, the opening of
umbrellas in the house, speaking of
the dead, and she thinks he told her
about the need to keep an axe under
the bed when a woman is in labor
to protect her from evil spirits about.
She found his stories both horrifying
and confusing, since her parents
countered that they were not true.
As she grew, her only superstition
became the spells of prayer she
uttered without ceasing to protect
her loved ones, which I know saved
us all on a number of occasions.
@Home Studio – 257th poem of the year
(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:
