(Poem 270 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Washing dishes (scrubbing a cookie sheet too hard.)
Rolling over in bed.
Holding up my cell phone to show my daughter a video.
Sitting up straight in my chair.
Bending over to pet Cotton Eyed Joe (my granddaughter’s cat.)
Typing.
Opening a Splenda packet; shaking it too vigorously.
Brushing my teeth.
Scooping a cup of dog food into the dog’s bowl.
Waving my Harry Potter wand.
@Home Studio – 270th poem of the year
(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 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 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 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:
(Poem 227 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Dressed to impress,
hair styled just so,
feet in new shoes,
look at them grow.
Climbing on a bus
for the commute,
backpack and lunch
and smiles to boot.
Headed to school,
meet the new class
make new friends
and have a blast.
It’s a great day to
start the new year
of learning and fun
with nothing to fear.
@Home Studio – 227th poem of the year
(Poem 221 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Puberty ushers in such
comrades as Anxiety,
Envy, Embarrassment,
and my favorite, Ennui.
The panic that ensues
when Embarrassment
threatens and Envy
rears her unsettled self,
resurrects Fear and
Disgust, Anger and
Sadness, leading to
complete paralysis.
The only protection
against it all is to feign
Ennui…nothing matters
because too much
enthusiasm might be
the wrong amount, and
no one would dare be
too happy in a room
full of teens trying to
fake unruffled chill.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio on 8/19/24 @ 10:17am – 221st poem of the year (After watching Inside Out 2 with my granddaughter in theatre.)
Mann, Kelsey. Inside Out 2. Amy Poehler, Pixar Animation Studios, 14 June 2024.
(Poem 212 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/BsWO3A https://gencraft.ai/p/FYxwx0
Auspicious stone turtles
stand guard, gargoyles of
destiny, good fortune baked
into their shells, assuring the
dwelling longstanding fortune.
The turtles in the pond
fight for bits of mushy carrot,
stale bread, and greens,
unaware of the larger battle
being fought in the sky pond
by Grummans and Warhawks.
The people swim and love,
dream and hope, serve an
emperor or a president who
demands unwavering loyalty,
and wonder when peace will
fill the turtle house again.
@Home Studio – 212th poem of the year (After reading The Turtle House by Amanda Churchill.)
Churchill, Amanda. The Turtle House. Harper Collins, 2024.
Runner ups for the Turtle House photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 211 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
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.)
Docter, Pete. Inside Out. Amy Poehler, Pixar Animation Studios, 19 June 2015.
(Poem 208 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/PTePZW https://gencraft.ai/p/Q3YLtj https://gencraft.ai/p/6T1PcL
Sitting in the eye of the storm
while the world flies past
outside the windows of this
steel box protective casing,
heart races, sinews solidify
to the point of intense shaking,
and nothing but this fixed point
matters because precious life
rests in that axis and the
breath that was held is finally
released into the stillness that
settles after spinning out.
@Home Studio – 208th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Spinning Out photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 