(Poem 115 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
We had a meeting in the kitchen.
I cried and scrubbed the stove.
You told me to take better care of myself.
I scraped burnt cabbage and tomato sauce off a pan.
You left a cabinet open.
I cried some more.
You played with the wind chimes.
I said how much I miss our chats.
You comforted me.
@Home Studio – 115th poem of the year
(Poem 102 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Floofy Jack is a big teddy bear
who happens to have a lot of hair.
He’s huge and fluffy and stinky, too;
thanks to his height, he has the best view.
Once in a while he’ll come to town
and walk down the street, each step on the ground
shaking the buildings, one mighty paw
is sure to make onlookers stare in awe.
They know the gentle giant will leave
after taking a stroll and a moment to grieve
at the place where the little girl rescued him
and gave his claws their very first trim.
The story is legend across the land—
how the girl saved the giant with her tiny hand.
With pets and treats and laughter and love,
she helped him become as gentle as a dove.
She proved to everyone near and far
that size doesn’t matter; it’s how kind you are.
She named Floofy Jack and called him her friend
and was his companion until the end.
When she passed away, he cried for a week;
his tears created a new fishing creek.
And that’s how the town was finally named
Bear Creek, thanks to the girl and the giant she tamed.
@Home Studio – 102nd poem of the year
All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
(Poem 77 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The tree that holds up the moon
had to be reinforced last month.
A branch broke and the light of night
nearly came tumbling down to earth.
We wept and prayed, wished we
had thought of something sooner.
Then the women gathered their
tools and began the tedious work
of stitching the bark strong where
the wound remained from the
gaping hole the bough left when
she fell away and broke our hearts.
@Home Studio – 77th poem of the year
Runner ups for the tree moon photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 59 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Seething anger
must be aimed
at an enemy,
or else.
If there is no
target, they risk
ricochet; with no
one else to hurt,
they have to feel
all the pain.
@Home Studio – 59th poem of the year (after watching the 2021 version of Westside Story with Debbie, Yulia, and Celinda)
Spielberg, Steven. Westside Story. Amblin Entertainment, TSG Entertainment, Dec. 10, 2021.
More Westside Story images:
(Poem 58 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“This is hard,” you say,
and point to her portrait,
no more words required.
Tears begin to flow;
you don’t want to cry
and say so.
I tell you no one knows
what you are feeling.
None of us have had a
best friend for 70 years
and had to feel the pain
of losing her.
Then I escape to my
room to weep into
my husband’s arms,
crying even harder
because she can’t
hold you.
@Home Studio – 58th poem of the year
(Poem 48 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My Mema passed away this morning. I had the privilege of spending 50 years in her presence. I will miss her something fierce. She has a husband she was married to for over 70 years, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren, not to mention every other possible connection to people far and wide.
I lotioned your feet, then hands
with white jasmine-scented
Bath & Body Works Miriam gave me
and tucked you in the way you like,
brushed your hair and read you your texts,
then some Bible verses of comfort—
Isaiah 40, the first one that surfaced.
The steady sounds of the ICU create
a strangely soothing white noise as a
backdrop to your labored breaths.
Lydia is here again to hold your hand
just one more time; one of many
one more times over the last few days
because each time could be the last.
The you I know is no longer here,
but the shell remains and deserves
gentle petting and reassurance.
Goodness knows how many times
you had to ‘there, there’ me in the last
50 years, buoying my spirits and righting
my sails with your steady faith and calm.
Boaz sat vigil until I arrived, and your
children and husband will take over after
I leave — we are all branches of a grand
candelabra you have lit with exuberance,
spreading across states and time, thankful to
have been influenced by the life you lived
and the love which from your cup overflowed.
@ICU Room 1 St. David’s Round Rock Hospital & Home Studio – 48th poem of the year
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