(Poem 272 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The new kitten
has no idea
what big paws
she has to fill,
but if her sass
and spunk
are any indication
of her intentions,
I would say she’s
going to hold her own
quite well in our pack.
@Home Studio – 272nd poem of the year
(Poem 271 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Respect boundaries
Mind my business
Remember birthdays
Be supportive
Don’t give unwanted advice
Stay connected
Don’t be nosy
Be patient
Set an example
Ask for forgiveness
Set expectations
Hold myself accountable
Accept change
Grant grace
@Home Studio – 271st poem of the year
(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 268 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Can agony
awaken possibility?
Is it painful
for the seed
to sprout,
or is the bursting out
more like relief?
Will something fresh
find its way through
the detritus
and despair,
and if so,
how will we know
when we can
hope again?
@Home Studio – 268th poem of the year
(Poem 267 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
It makes me so sad
that people hurt
others and break
their own hearts,
that alleviating pain
destroys so many
from the inside out,
and we must endure
misfortune and loss,
especially if we allow
ourselves to love
with the full volume
of our souls.
@Home Studio – 267th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Sad photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 265 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My man
is in Japan
learning what he can
from teachers who understand
that the world is vast, and dreams are grand
for those who are willing to stretch and expand
both body and spirit by making a personal demand
that pliability and fortitude exist when things unplanned
knock us off center, we discover that we are able to withstand
most of life’s assaults with a calm heart, a quiet mind, and an open hand.
@Home Studio – 265th 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 263 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I’m zipping
through the streets
of Italy
on a motorbike,
past the Colosseum,
looking with my eyes,
not my phone.
Being beside
things built
to last
slows
the pace
of time
to cobblestone
roads
that lead
to fountains
and statues
who’ve seen
many iterations of me
over the last thousand years
gazing back
at them.
Buongiorno,
they cheer across the plaza
to welcome me back again.
@Home Studio – 263rd poem of the year (inspired by an episode of Emily in Paris set in Rome)
Star, Darren, et al. Emily in Paris. “Roman Holiday” Los Angeles, CA, Paramount, 2024.
(Poem 262 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
These days, people are always on
about girl dinner and boy dinner,
but what about Mom dinner?
That’s the meal where you get a
spoonful of the stir-fry you are
making to taste what seasonings
are needed, a bite of each veggie
as you chop it, a spoonful of baby
food to show them how yummy
it is, and one chicken nugget that
was left on your child’s plate and
looked forlorn all by its lonesome.
You dip a carrot stick in ketchup
and eat half a string cheese that
was left on the counter by a kid.
The last swig of backwash apple
juice remaining in a sippy cup
might be what you get to drink.
Ask any Mom what a Mom dinner
is and the same haggard face of
recognition will nod in sympathy.
@Home Studio – 262nd poem of the year
(Poem 261 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am always fascinated
by people unafraid to
share the gruesome
details of their lives
with the rest of us so
we can hold them up
to the light and examine
their every wart and
crack, wrinkle and roll
of fat like specimens.
But the glass jar with
pink paper inside that
made the cover look
warm and inviting was
a trap that forced me
to witness her most
vulnerable moments,
and now I feel sad and
embarrassed for her.
@Home Studio on 9/17/24 @ 7:45pm – 261st poem of the year (After reading Safekeeping-some true stories from a life by Abigail Thomas.)
Thomas, Abigail. Safekeeping -some true stories from a life. Anchor Books, 2001.
Runner ups for the Safekeeping photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 