(Poem 154 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The darkening sky
has balled up her fists,
begun to glower,
and let her rage roil.
The sudden assault
when she unleashes
a torrent is surprising
for its violent beauty.
@Home Studio – 154th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Sudden Storm photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 153 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Let’s go ahead and
start the meeting
since we’re 3 minutes
past and we want to
respect your time.
We need to be flexible,
be prepared to pivot,
and accept that
this is a new norm.
We are going to be
rolling out the new task,
so we have to
shift directions
because, as always, the
requester determines the focus,
and in order to
meet the expectations,
you’ll need to respect the
importance of the workflow.
Due to internal deadlines
that will continue to
vary by task,
I may have to give you a non-answer.
I will never say no to more resources,
but I have to say that
I can’t speak to the assumption.
In terms of use cases…
reach out to P.O.’s,
and utilize your team.
I am going to have to
create a document to guide the process
because we all know
there are specific guidelines,
and we must be aware of
time on task to meet deadlines.
I appreciate your input;
that is useful data.
@Home Studio – 153rd poem of the year
(Poem 152 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“Long live the Rose that grew”
and shared her life with you,
a man of principles and strength,
a man who’ll go to any length
to be your rock who is stable
and always put food on the table.
Long live the man who knew
that his love for Rose was true,
a woman of conviction and force,
a woman who looks good on a horse,
who would battle on your behalf
and knows how to make you laugh.
@Home Studio – 152nd poem of the year
Shakur, Tupac. The Rose That Grew from Concrete. New York: Pocket Books, 2009.
(Poem 151 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My opossum Joey Koey
is a secret ninja at night.
He goes on special missions
guided only by moonlight.
When we’re all asleep,
safe resting in our beds,
he’s off saving the world;
we’re scratching our heads.
How does he get out of
his kennel all on his own?
How does he get the jobs?
Does he talk on my phone?
Who out there needs saving
by an adorable marsupial?
His ministrations are sincere;
he’s persistent and dutiful.
I’m sure he has his reasons
for sneaking around and all,
for using his claws and tail
to make sure he doesn’t fall.
I have to trust he knows what
he’s doing and will be alright,
while I sleep safe and sound in
my bed and he’s out all night.
@Home Studio – 151st poem of the year
Runner ups for the Ninja Opossum photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 150 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Breaded chicken sandwich
with pickles and a sweet tea,
waffle potato fries with salt,
and all the special sauces—
barbecue, garden herb ranch,
honey mustard, Polynesian,
sweet & spicy sriracha, zesty
buffalo, honey roasted bbq,
avocado lime ranch, creamy
salsa, fat-free honey mustard,
garden herb ranch, light
balsamic vinaigrette, light Italian,
zesty apply cider vinaigrette,
and especially Chick-fil-A sauce.
@Home Studio – 150th poem of the year
(Poem 149 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“Clues that fall out of the sky are messages from spirit, but you must be alert to catch them.” – Merlin, The Way of the Wizard
The laws of nature
answer to no man.
Striking a match creates a flame.
Lightning fells a tree.
The sun entices the earth to pirouette.
We are all caught in complex
webs of cause and effect,
a butterfly effect
of chaos unfolding
smoothly.
Synchronicities,
narrow escapes,
answered prayers,
divine coincidences,
lucky accidents,
the knowing of intuition—
all are clues you’ve
left so you’ll recognize
yourself through the
disguise of the material.
We must respect the mystery,
but pursue it ruthlessly
if we hope to find what
we don’t even know we seek.
@Home Studio – 149th 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.116-122.
Runner ups for the divine coincidence photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 148 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
When Jennifer gets hangry,
people better watch out.
She’s usually quite docile,
but whoo can she shout.
The slightest little noise
can make her head explode.
If a breeze blows too strong,
she starts croaking like a toad.
Once she reaches that point,
there’s nothing you can do,
except pass her a plate of nachos,
a hamburger, a taco, or two.
@Home Studio – 148th poem of the year
(Poem 147 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Frank is very philosophical,
though I doubt he would agree.
His views on life are complex,
but his conscience remains free.
I usually enjoy our conversations,
though I don’t always understand.
His mind works in counterpoints;
his theories can be quite grand.
I think he wants justice to exist,
but he knows that’s a stretch.
It bothers him that evil prevails,
yet he feels pity for the wretch.
His spirit is buoyed by hopefulness,
though his mind is a critic at heart.
Frankly, I’ve never met anyone else
who I can say is half as smart.
@Home Studio – 147th poem of the year
(Poem 146 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
What a happy little monster
this fellow turned out to be,
full of giggles and laughter,
buzzing around like a bee.
Each of his ample pockets
is stuffed full of lumpy rocks.
He also collects keys that no
longer can find their locks.
He makes friends with critters
whether they can talk or not;
no being is too big, too small,
too cold, or ever too hot.
Just as a joke he tried once
to make an angry, scary face,
but he couldn’t hold it together
and grinned in uppercase.
@Home Studio – 146th poem of the year
(Poem 145 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
There’s a lonely monster I know by the name of Stan.
He wanders the desert to avoid the face of man.
We ran into one another once on a camping trip.
I was with a tour group until I gave them the slip.
I came across Stan warming by a lovely little fire.
I assured him I wasn’t scared; he called me a liar.
With his eyes downcast, he told me about his past.
Then I told him about mine, though he never asked.
We agreed we were both the biggest lost cases,
not good with people and ashamed of our faces.
I remember the stars were quite beautiful that night.
Then Stan stood and stretched to his full height.
I was shocked and speechless, to say the least.
He was a hulking form, a most magnificent beast.
I apologized for staring, and he chuckled a bit
and declared me his long-lost mutual hypocrite.
See, together we each judged ourselves the worst,
as though from birth we both had been cursed,
though he had told me to give myself a break,
and I had preached that he deserved a fair shake.
When I eventually said I had to rejoin my group,
he patted my head, though he had to stoop.
We agreed to meet at this same spot once a year
to sit around the fire and drink some beer.
I’ve never told anyone of this once-a-year plan,
but I visit a lonely monster by the name of Stan.
@Home Studio – 145th poem of the year
