(Poem 84 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Is there anything lonelier
than an empty boat
in the middle of the sea?
It has lost its mate
to the wind and the waves,
who never more shall be.
No, nothing is lonelier
than an empty boat
in the middle of the sea.
Except, perhaps,
this empty room
without you and only me.
@Home Studio – 84th poem of the year
(Poem 83 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Someday I’ll live in a hobbit hole
and grow mushrooms and sweet mint.
I’ll stoke a small fire to cut the chill
and steep cinnamon for a cozy scent.
First thing in the morning, I’ll sip my tea,
while I watch the sunrise in peace.
Then at 10:02, I’ll water the plants,
before hand-feeding the bunnies and geese.
By then it’ll be time for second breakfast—
berries and cream in a bowl.
Then I’ll probably need to take a nap
because that’s life in a hobbit hole.
@Home Studio – 83rd poem of the year
Runner ups for the Hobbit hole photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 82 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Shall I build a spire atop my roof
and invite the townspeople to a
grand ball with a string quartet?
Or shall I plant a rose garden
hedged in by topiaries and pebble
paths bordered by flower beds?
Or shall I plan a high tea with
clotted cream, scones, and jam,
cucumber sandwiches all around?
If it’s a rainy day, should I pass
the time by taking an afternoon
lover and lounge on satin cushions?
If I’m feeling melancholy, shall I
read a book of poems by candlelight
and cry luxuriously at the romance?
Once I pay bills and file my taxes,
get my oil changed and check the mail,
grocery shop and gas up the car,
shall I start on my new to do list?
Yes, I think I shall.
@Home Studio – 82nd poem of the year
(Poem 81 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI is puzzled by human hands.
They are used for grasping
objects and gesturing,
typing on keyboards and
petting animals, holding
teacups aloft and shielding
the eyes to protect from
bright sunlight, but mostly
they hang strangely from
the end of human arms
without purpose or form.
How many fingers is anyone’s
guess; where one hand ends
and another begins cannot
be determined by the
greatest minds in computing.
All the hands touching
one’s face must be the way
to show comfort to another.
Perhaps a hand should sprout
from an ankle, to better
touch the earth’s surface with.
And don’t even get AI started
on the fingernails; we’ll be
here all day trying to figure out
the what and where of those,
never mind the why…
@Home Studio – 81st poem of the year
Runner ups for the AI hands photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 80 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I once caught sunrise in a jar
and was tempted to keep it,
put it on my bookshelf next to
an Asian vase and a picture of
a peacock I got off Marketplace.
I held that jar, warm as a cup
of tea, and felt the hum of
life dawning between my palms.
Regret at trapping such a being
immediately overwhelmed me,
and I unscrewed the lid lefty-
loosie until nothing hindered
egress, yet sunrise remained
in the jar as though appreciative
of a pause; so, we sat together
a little longer, sunrise and me.
Though brief, the moment was
poignant, and I am ashamed to
admit I sometimes wish I had
kept the lid screwed on tight.
@Home Studio – 80th poem of the year
(Poem 79 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
There’s a real life
gingerbread house
down the road and
around the bend.
I used to babysit
a boy who grew into
a very tall man who
married a wife
and had some kids
and lives there now.
Once my charges
were fed and bathed,
stories read, I’d eat
their parents’ snacks
and watch MTV—
when it was actually
about music videos
like Thriller and
The Police,
Tears for Fears,
Madonna’s
Papa Don’t Preach,
Aha, and
Careless Whisper.
I appreciated the
pocket change I
earned from my
first childhood job,
but my real paycheck
was the chance to
watch ZZ Top and
Duran Duran.
Those blessed reels
were my lifeline to
Sweet Dreams in the
Still of the Night
and the soundtrack
of my adolescence.
@Home Studio – 79th poem of the year
(Poem 78 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The flame of wisdom
is held aloft by an aged
snail who carries a galaxy
on her back as she glides
through the universe
leaving a trail of stars
in her slow-moving wake.
The wax that drips forms
rings around planets and
her eyes see through
time to the essence of
reality’s lover—authenticity.
She’s best friends with
both integrity and prudence
and the enemy of hubris.
When she tires, she rests
on the banks of compassion
until her spirit is restored,
then resumes her course.
Her gravity is the perfect
balance of curiosity and
contentment, and her laughter
creates starquakes like
cosmic fireworks brilliantly
painting heaven’s expanse.
@Home Studio – 78th poem of the year
Runner ups for the snail candle photos to accompany my poem:
(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 76 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
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:
(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
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:
rebekahjmarshall 