(Poem 166 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I found a bag of iced
Christmas pretzels
with sprinkles in the
back of the pantry.
Seeing as it is June,
they are a bit past
their prime freshness.
Craving a sweet but
unwilling to make a
treat from scratch,
I decided to give one
a taste, just a tiny
tentative baby nibble.
Huh…not bad…fresh
like a time capsule
of Christmas past.
@Home Studio – 166th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Christmas Pretzels photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 165 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My cats have a piano.
They let me play it
once in a while when
I get the notion, but
mostly they sleep and
purr, and stretch on the
multiple flat surfaces
purely built for perching.
@Home Studio – 165th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Cat Piano photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 164 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am so sorry, sweet Kura,
for being a bad steward.
I am treading water and
barely staying afloat.
Between trying to keep
people, dogs, cats, plants,
and an opossum alive,
none can really thrive,
certainly not me and,
obviously, not you.
I am guilty of neglect,
and you deserve better.
I already spoke with your
former caretaker, and she
has agreed to nurse you
back to health, I only
hope it is not too late.
@Home Studio on 6/18/24 @ 10:37pm – 164th poem of the year
(Poem 163 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
@Home Studio – 163rd poem of the year (See below for poem in easier to read format)
I’m not much for flying flags of any kind.
Raised a conscientious objector
in a niche religion in the Bible Belt South, I
was taught my allegiance belonged only to
God. No pledges to countries, states, or other
designations were acceptable, and certainly no
banners representing such entities need adorn
my person, home or belongings. Yet, I’ve always
felt a swell of emotion when the National Anthem
is sung, people covering their hearts in reverence.
In recent years, I’ve learned of the Pan-African flag
that many in the black communities are adopting
to show allegiance to their roots, and the Juneteenth
flag representing when more Americans than ever
were finally rescued from enslavement. I live in Texas,
where many seem more loyal to the state flag than any
other, a people of the lone star who would once again
be fine with setting up their own country if it means
liberals stop messing in their business. I was an
adult when I realized the United States flag is an
ever-changing configuration of stars as states
are added to the union. When Flag Day was
made a federal holiday, there were only 13.
This country has grown to 50, and will
probably expand more in my lifetime.
(Poem 161 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Charlotte and I, and Sarah and Duck
like to have tea together now and then.
We especially like it when we get visits
from Donkey, Scarf Lady, Bag, and Bug.
We gossip about Scooter Boy and the
Ribbon Sisters sitting with Umbrella.
We keep an eye on The Shallots to see
if they have grown, say hello to Plate
Girl, and wave happily to Hat Lady.
If it’s an especially lovely day, we might
see Bread Man, hear a squawk from
Flamingo, or chat with Leftover Wool.
And through it all, we sip our tea and
sigh, while whispering as many right
proper British-isms as we can muster.
@Home Studio – 161st poem of the year (after watching Sarah & Duck with Charlotte.)
Harris, Sarah Gomes, and O’Sullivan, Tim, Sarah & Duck, Karrot Animation, 18 February, 2013.
(Poem 158 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Every opossum should have a hammock
for the purpose of reclining and lounging.
They spend the night mastering feats dynamic,
then cleaning little hands after scrounging.
Their weary bodies need 18 hours of sleep,
so it’s amazing we ever catch them awake.
A suspended soft perch ensures nary a peep,
as they dream of eating cake and a steak.
Yes, every opossum deserves a hanging bed
where they can climb to a safe, warm retreat.
There they can nestle and rest a tired head
to nap in peace and dream of sweet meat.
@Home Studio – 158th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Opossum Hammock photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 152 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“Long live the Rose that grew”
and shared her life with you,
a man of principles and strength,
a man who’ll go to any length
to be your rock who is stable
and always put food on the table.
Long live the man who knew
that his love for Rose was true,
a woman of conviction and force,
a woman who looks good on a horse,
who would battle on your behalf
and knows how to make you laugh.
@Home Studio – 152nd poem of the year
Shakur, Tupac. The Rose That Grew from Concrete. New York: Pocket Books, 2009.
(Poem 151 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My opossum Joey Koey
is a secret ninja at night.
He goes on special missions
guided only by moonlight.
When we’re all asleep,
safe resting in our beds,
he’s off saving the world;
we’re scratching our heads.
How does he get out of
his kennel all on his own?
How does he get the jobs?
Does he talk on my phone?
Who out there needs saving
by an adorable marsupial?
His ministrations are sincere;
he’s persistent and dutiful.
I’m sure he has his reasons
for sneaking around and all,
for using his claws and tail
to make sure he doesn’t fall.
I have to trust he knows what
he’s doing and will be alright,
while I sleep safe and sound in
my bed and he’s out all night.
@Home Studio – 151st poem of the year
Runner ups for the Ninja Opossum photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 148 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
When Jennifer gets hangry,
people better watch out.
She’s usually quite docile,
but whoo can she shout.
The slightest little noise
can make her head explode.
If a breeze blows too strong,
she starts croaking like a toad.
Once she reaches that point,
there’s nothing you can do,
except pass her a plate of nachos,
a hamburger, a taco, or two.
@Home Studio – 148th poem of the year
(Poem 147 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Frank is very philosophical,
though I doubt he would agree.
His views on life are complex,
but his conscience remains free.
I usually enjoy our conversations,
though I don’t always understand.
His mind works in counterpoints;
his theories can be quite grand.
I think he wants justice to exist,
but he knows that’s a stretch.
It bothers him that evil prevails,
yet he feels pity for the wretch.
His spirit is buoyed by hopefulness,
though his mind is a critic at heart.
Frankly, I’ve never met anyone else
who I can say is half as smart.
@Home Studio – 147th poem of the year
rebekahjmarshall 