Photograph by Rebekah Marshall – Julian as Michael Myers
What is wrong with children these days?
My grandson’s goal in life is to either scare me or disgust me and my reaction must be over the top.
He just turned 6.
How does he even know who Michael Myers is? Can we turn the clock back to dinosaurs and race cars, Frozen and Trolls?
At least he had the decency to explain to me that he is wearing a costume and he is not the real Michael Myers. He went on to explain that there isn’t even a real Michael Myers because he’s pretend, so no children will be killed in this process. I appreciated the reassurance.
One of my favorite exotic plants is the Seeing Flower. I’ve never been able to grow them at home but have found several in the wild. I absolutely love how they track your movements and appear to make eye contact. I always wonder what they are thinking. I know it’s silly, anthropomorphizing a flower, but I can’t help it. They say eyes are the window to the soul. What if plants have souls?
@Home Studio – 293rd poem of the year
Runner ups for the Eye Flower photos to accompany my poem:
It was many a long age ago, In a village by the sea, That a woman was found washed ashore By the name of Annabel Lee; She was barely alive but wanted nothing more Than to hide her identity.
She was so young, so very young, In this village by the sea, But she cared for her friends and grew strong— This lovely Annabel Lee— She held her secrets close to her chest So she could remain free.
But one cold, lonely night, In this village by the sea, She decided to share her long sad tale The mysterious Annabel Lee; She faked her death to escape a man And boarded a ship to flee,
But the ship was wrecked and that is how She washed up with the debris. She didn’t know why she was cursed so, Why Heaven would not let her be— Or why the man who claimed her soul Would not set her free. That is why she faked her death, The brave Annabel Lee.
But she feared he would find her The man she did flee— The man she tried to flee— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Could protect her now from the evil man Who was obsessed with Annabel Lee;
So our village, her people, we crowded around To protect our Annable Lee; And when a man arrived to find the tomb Of the beautiful Annabel Lee We took him to an old corpse we dug up And dressed in a wedding gown And there he lived by the sea— With someone he thought was Annabel Lee.
@Home Studio – 291st poem of the year (A response to Poe’s “Annabel Lee”)
Runner ups for the Lady by the Sea photos to accompany my poem:
My pocket elephant is adorable; I don’t leave home without her. She sleeps all snuggled in her little pouch until snack time, when she munches contentedly on tiny slices of jackfruit, banana, bamboo, and tree bark. Sometimes, she grows restless if I haven’t pet her enough, or she has the zoomies. Then I let her roam until she wears herself out and wants to climb back in my pocket. I pour little capfuls of water for her to drink, and give her back scratches upon demand. In turn, she loves me and trumpets her concern if she senses me getting too stressed. She’s my sweet, sweet girl, my dearest companion, and has my whole heart. My only complaint is how much she poops and often without warning.
@Home Studio on 10/26/24 @ 10:41pm – 289th poem of the year
when I find myself in times of trouble I’m drawn to the river to reflect and recover where the glowing orbs catch my fears and float them away with my wasted tears only then can I return to my daily routine less burdened by doubt less afraid of the unseen for I know the orbs will always be there to absorb every worry and receive every prayer
“O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.” -Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare
We contain multitudes: eloquent silence good grief poor health loyal opposition loud whisper sad smile sweet sorrow unbiased opinion seriously funny random order open secret minor miracle only choice definite maybe deceptively honest clearly misunderstood civil war bittersweet alone together genuine imitation impossible solution intense apathy living dead silent scream same difference friendly takeover even odds cruel kindness conspicuous absence cheerful pessimist loving hate
@Home Studio – 287th poem of the year
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616. Romeo and Juliet, 1597. Oxford :published for the Malone Society by Oxford University Press, 2000.
Runner ups for the Happy Sad photos to accompany my poem:
Just as deities make people out of clay, people fashion deities. The many limbs and heads, monstrous features, horns and wings, and fear-inducing parts are what evoke a sense of wonder and awe, I suppose.
If I were to create my own deity, she would be a kindly old woman with gentle eyes and a hearty laugh, who bakes bread, tends to her garden, wears an apron, and pats my hand while we sip tea.
@Home Studio – 284th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Dieties photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 