If Joy and Sadness go missing, Anger, Fear, and Disgust try to take control. And no matter how hard we try to ride the train of thought to the solution, it’s difficult to escape danger without sacrificing little pieces of ourselves. But the integration of our most vulnerable parts strengthens our core memories and allows us to reach out from our islands to embrace those we love.
@Home Studio – 211th poem of the year (After watching Inside Out with my grandkids and bawling like a baby.)
The only way to escape perpetual immaturity is to ache to go beyond the boundaries we have set for ourselves as acceptable, normal, safe, and comfortable in the now. We must stretch outward through the discomfort of reaching for what we do not yet recognize as reality to grasp ahold of our destiny and allow desire to materialize again and again and again until we see that the direct path to God has been our longing all along in the form of wishes and needs we did not even understand as yearning for the perfection of pure love.
@Erica’s – 193rd 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.129-135.
Runner ups for the Arthur crown photos to accompany my poem:
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:
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:
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:
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:
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:
Bless your heart, you simple soul; not a thought going on up there. No light on in that attic of yours, or maybe the light’s on, but nobody’s home. You mean well, but you can’t help it that you’re not playing with a full deck of cards. Poor thing fell out of the family tree and hit every branch on the way down. It’s not your fault you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed; you’ve lost your marbles, you’re off your rocker, and your elevator’s stuck between two floors. You’re thick as a post, rowing with one oar, a pickle short of a barrel. There might be a leak in your think tank, one prop short of a plane, and I’m afraid you might have a few loose screws. You’re a few peas short of a casserole, two sandwiches shy of a picnic, a drink short of a 6-pack, and can’t think your way out of a paper bag. It’s ok that you’re silly as a goose, as smart as bait, and don’t have all the dots on your dice. You may not be firing on all 6 cylinders, possibly running about a quart low. You’re a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and your cheese might have slipped off your cracker, but I love it when you come around because if I stand close enough to you I can hear the ocean.
@Home Studio – 170th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Bless Your Heart photos to accompany my poem:
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