(Poem 278 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
If this
was my room,
I would never
do
anything
but nap
and watch
the weather
change her mind
and write silly
poems about
dappled light
and dancing clouds,
and daydream
after reading
old love letters
while listening
to “Bésame Mucho”
on Spanish guitar.
@Home Studio – 278th poem of the year
(Poem 276 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
There’s a hole
in the ceiling
that needs
to be fixed.
The leak
that caused the need
for the hole
has been repaired,
but the hole
remains.
I ponder that space
when the house
is quiet
and nothing else needs
my attention.
The naming of things
fascinates me,
and the fact that we have a word for the absence of something where another thing should be
gives me comfort.
It means
others have discovered
something missing
that needs to be there
and filled it with a name.
@Home Studio – 276th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Hole in the Ceiling photos to accompany my poem:
(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.
rebekahjmarshall 