I didn’t expect to be heard, for him to sit across from me and create space for all my woes— the back, the knees, the hips, the medications, the liver problems, the dreams of being a dancer again someday if only the pain would permit… nor expect him to examine my movement, strength, balance, coordination, and flexibility.
He was thorough and kind, asked about my living situation, support system, emotional health, career, hobbies, and activity levels.
He made suggestions, asked my opinion, answered my questions, and then we made a plan— together.
The spiral ladders of DNA that make us who we are could fill eternity with the variations and unique combinations of traits, but a few things remain constant as the sunrise— we’re all made of sugar, acid, and stone, at least, that’s the way I remember.
Deoxyribo is the sugar part; nucleic acid is nitrogen and phosphates found in the nucleus, the acid and rock. All living things have four bases that make up their chromosomes, two couples who are mated for life— Adenine with Thymine, Cytosine with Guanine, till death do they part.
We can’t do anything about our mendelian traits, they are etched in our bones, but other genes can be turned on or off depending on factors around, in, because of, or in spite of our efforts and the forces of nature, our environment, our thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and everything else we are buffeted by against our will.
There will come a day when disease will be cured by fixing the program, turning on or off the genes we already have written in our code but simply need someone to tinker with a little, so much gentler than the draconian medical procedures of cut and remove, destroy and cauterize; our descendants will feel sorry for what we endured, and study us in awe of our blind faith.
@Home Studio – 354th poem of the year
Runner ups for the DNA photos to accompany my poem:
The monthly meeting of the forest animals started as a racoon tea party, but soon grew to include mice, a rabbit, a few squirrels, and an occasional deer or two.
They haven’t changed the name from the initial Racoon Tea Party title, but will probably vote next time on a new event headline that more adequately captures their essential makeup.
Because, really, it’s not even about the tea, either. The tea is a nice incidental part of every gathering, of course, but the real meat of the assembly is stimulating discussion of all matters consequential.
Whether it be politics, religion, philosophy, science the nature of reality, love, literature, finance, history, the arts, alchemy, astronomy, anthropology, languages, or artificial intelligence, the conversation is deep.
Albert racoon always steers the discussion to matters economical, which irritates Edward racoon to no end. And Amos squirrel tends to interrupt Silas rabbit anytime he brings up weather patterns. Olivia squirrel snorts disagreement.
Freda racoon can never get a word in edgewise because Agnes racoon prattles on about the pharmaceutical industry at every opportunity, and loudly, but, all in all, they have a roaring good time every month around dusk at their meeting of the minds.
@Home Studio – 352nd poem of the year
Runner ups for the Racoon Tea Party photos to accompany my poem:
Strawberry Shortcake was such a lovely girl who lived in Strawberryland and rode a pink bicycle.
Her kitty cat Custard and friends Lemon Meringue Blueberry Muffin Angel Cake Apple Dumplin’ Butter Cookie Mint Tulip Lime Chiffon Raspberry Tart Café Ole Plum Puddin’ Tea Blossom and Huckleberry Pie always had her back.
And that smell, oh, that delectable Strawberry Shortcake delicious scent, the aroma of childhood for a sliver of children born in the 70s early 80s.
Between the covers so many worlds unfold into beautiful realities where she can be anything or anyone or nothing but a concept or a rhythm or a sound that inflates the silence with pulsating life on the verge of one final breath before the universe flings itself into new voids so she can invent something new.
@Home Studio – 349th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Book Girl photos to accompany my poem:
The lives of the oppressed are sacrificed to satisfy the frivolous whims of the powerful with the luster of blood pearls and mermaid’s tears.
The battle of the depths is a fight to the death for those forced to toil beneath the surface deprived of oxygen, freedom, choice, love— purely to appease the purses of nobles and the vanity of every beautiful lady in the Tang Dynasty.
@Home Studio – 348th poem of the year (Based on The Story of Pearl Girl.)
Xie Ze, The Story of Pearl Girl. lusi Zhao, Yuning Liu, Tang Xiao Tian, Laoyouo Film and Television and Galaxy Cool Entertainment Media, 2024.
Runner ups for the Pearl Diver photos to accompany my poem:
The great North American Gator Bird can be found in the swamps and marshlands in the Louisiana bayous along the Mississippi and the Okefenokee in Georgia.
They eat other birds, snakes, turtles, fish, racoons, opossums, deer, and the occasional stray human.
@Home Studio – 347th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Gator Bird photos to accompany my poem:
I was reading a Mary Oliver poem, as I tend to do and the theme was birdsong, as her poems tend to be, and I was transported— looking out the open window of my grandson’s room when he lived with me as a baby, our routine as simple as one, two, three, me holding him him looking at me, waiting for my imitation of the bird call of the morning.
I was quite impressed with my mimicry, as was he. The bird would sing to us and we would respond. If I took too long, my grandson would grunt to hurry me up. A proper reply must be whistled off, woman.
I’d forgotten that I learned three different bird calls during our shelter-in-place COVID season, probably the accomplishment I’m secretly most proud of, even though I also got my Master’s degree, fostered my grandchildren, taught remotely, rescued an elderly cat, and survived.
But those morning conversations between the birds, my grandson, and me—
@Home Studio – 345th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Bird Calls photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 