Tag Archives: Health

Poetry, Writing

The Tree that Holds up the Moon

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(Poem 77 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/a1SThn

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:

Poetry, Writing

Sweet Inspiration

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(Poem 76 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/FJuDC4

Sweet inspiration flows inward,
filling every cell and synapse with
translucent nectar that branches
into spirals of peaceful fragrance.
There are notes of earth and rain,
warm melons sitting ripe in a field,
flower petals lingering long after
being wilted by the moon’s tears,
golden bread fresh from the oven,
and the vellichor of parchment.

@Home Studio – 76th poem of the year

Runner ups for the inspiration photos to accompany my poem:

Health, Poetry, Writing

Lesson 12 The Way of the Wizard

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(Poem 75 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

“Wisdom is alive and therefore always unpredictable.” -Deepak Chopra’s The Way of the Wizard    

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com  https://gencraft.ai/p/dVT3Jv

We must learn to contain
both chaos and order,
swirling atoms, firing neurons,
never ceasing electrical storms
matched only by coherent thought
and organized cellular function.
A rose in seed form looks the
same as a bean or a violet.
Only invisible twisted twin strands
delineate its inevitable destiny.
Yet, we worry about becoming,
spend struggle and effort to
assert our determined uniqueness.
Why not surrender to fate?
A rose by any other name
(and all that) is a universal truth.
When pressures push this way
and other, we try to impose order.
Yet, attempts at control run
counter to the grain of life.
Learn to accept the unpredictable,
make peace with entropy,
embrace all potentials, so the
opportune impulses can flood
like inspiration into life, and the
bud naturally unfold into a rose.

@Home Studio – 75th 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. 85-89.

Runner ups for the rose bud photos to accompany my poem:

Health, Poetry, Writing

Sleep is My Favorite Activity

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(Poem 73 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/GCc85W

Sleep is my favorite activity.
I think it always has been.
It’s just a little harder now
to reach the perfect bliss.
When I was young and firm,
sleep came easy, just dripped
like candle wax on my pillow.
Now I need my cpap machine,
a supersonic fan on blast,
the right kind of darkness
that blocks out memory,
the right kind of quiet
that sets the stage for dreams,
the perfect temperature set,
all my pillows plumped just so,
my grounding sheets tucked,
and my husband by my side.

@Home Studio – 73rd poem of the year

Health, Poetry, Writing

Good Morning

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(Poem 69 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/gEjF5X

Good morning leaves decaying in layers in our little yard forest. You have carpeted the ground beautifully with your life donation. Each of your sacrifices is appreciated, honored, and revered by many paws padding over your graves. Good morning birds singing to the gallery of the gods. You cheer the space where silence was lonely and fill the trees with invisible color. Good morning cool breeze gently swaying the boughs. Waving, nodding, welcoming all of us to your open-air cathedral, we are in awe of your generosity. Good morning ghost white sky. I suppose you don’t feel cornflower blue right now, and that is okay. You are lovely just as you are and have every right to express yourself however you like. Good morning big red barn with peeling paint. Your strength and shelter have protected many generations. You have been a foundation upon which lives were built. Good morning wood pile. What a lovely stack you’ve made of yourself, artistically skewed like an artisanal centerpiece for the yard.

@Home Studio – 69th poem of the year

Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Law & Order: SVU

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(Poem 68 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

https://images.app.goo.gl/1AQSkHQq8cYWGWkw5

Crimes against the most
vulnerable in society
often go unreported,
unsolved, left in the dark
where they were committed.
Shows about the people
who work tirelessly to
defend the weak and
catch the perpetrators
of evil provide comfort.
Each episode should probably
elicit fear, shed light on
terrors I never even thought
of before, keep me up at night,
but instead, something about
the procedural repetition of
violence, discovery,
investigation, interrogation,  
Stabler wrestles with demons,
Benson saves the day,
the criminal goes to jail,
and I can fall right to sleep.

@Home Studio – 68th poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

Life Is Hard

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(Poem 65 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Kenji, Aiko, Beauty (Starting at 12 o’clock and going clockwise)

Life is hard for protectors
who must bark endlessly to
deter potential enemies.
Anything could be a threat-
that leaf fluttering menacingly
toward the fence line,
the plane flying over head,
even the car passing on the
street that can’t be seen,
only heard and understood
to pose a danger to all.
It is only right that well-earned
naps take place at regular
intervals throughout the day.
How else will they manage
to continue their missions,
patrol every inch of property,
smell every conceivable
danger before it could
possibly occur, and protect
the peace with dignity?
The cat just likes to nap for
no good reason; she has not
honorably earned her sleep,
nor has she contributed in
any way to the security of
her family beyond gazing
disinterestedly at the hard
workers as they tirelessly
performed their duties.
It is a thankless job with
only contentment as reward.

@Home Studio – 65th poem of the year

Health, Poetry, Writing

I Fell Today

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(Poem 61 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/7pYBlB

I fell today while walking Kenji
the short distance to the dog run.
I did not trip, stumble, collapse,
slip, stub my toe, nor faint dead away.
It was as though the earth moved
from beneath my feet and there
was nothing left to do but lie down-
the slow motion forward momentum
reminiscent of a tree felled by rot.

My shocked dog panicked, then
sprung into action and proceeded to
administer CPR square in the middle
of my back while head-butting me,
attempting to bring me to. Trouble is,
I was not in need of any of these
ministrations; my breathing was
startled, but sure, and adrenaline
ensured no loss of consciousness.

I’ve dreaded this day for over a
year; “Whatever you do, don’t fall,”
the surgeon’s only instructions
like telling a bird not to fly, a fish
not to swim, a dog not to give CPR
to its helpless person in need.
So, fall, I did, but break, I did not.
A little scraped, a lot bruised, but
no longer dreading the first fall.

@Home Studio – 61st poem of the year

Health, Poetry, Writing

Old Tin Can

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(Poem 60 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/VMtRBA

An old tin can has myriad uses.
It can hold almost anything
that might need holding.
Used bolts, nails, and hinges,
extra screws that might come
in handy someday or never.
Paper clips, tacks, coins, even
a drink once given a good rinse.
There’s no end to its sense of
purpose when put to task.
It can keep seed safe ‘till the
next planting time comes,
trap danger in the form of
stinging things that scurry,
send sound with nothing more
than cotton string pulled taut.
It can be stacked and rolled,
kicked down the road,
thrown, crushed, and buried,
endure flame, flood, and cold.
The thing of it is the absence
of any thing that makes it
so useful because it can be
filled, drained, cherished, forgotten.
Its essence is what many
spend their lives trying to
imitate, emptying of self
opening to the possibility
of receiving and being filled.
I ‘reckon it would be quite a
compliment to be compared
to an old tin can because you
could hold your head high
knowing someone recognized
your inherent worth.

@Home Studio – 60th poem of the year