(Poem 191 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Interlaced stems braided
to create structure beneath
the surface soak in nutrients,
nourish new opening buds,
hold strong fully-flared,
freshly-ripened flowers of
cerulean, cardinal red, plum,
violet, magenta, tangerine,
and pops of bright sunflower.
@Erica’s – 191st poem of the year
Runner ups for the bouquet photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 190 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/Sa2iIv https://gencraft.ai/p/WKPxbw https://gencraft.ai/p/pOcgWm
The uterus is a universe
of endometrial enchantment,
a whispering womb,
a reproductive realm,
a cervical sanctuary,
and the cradle of life;
the hormonal harmony
in that pelvic paradise
creates menstrual magic
from the ovarian orbit
and fallopian fantasy that
results in a cycle symphony
…until it becomes something else…
a pelvic painscape
due to hormonal havoc
that creates womb woes
due to cervical crisis,
ovaries who are outraged,
frustrated fallopian tubes,
endometrial eruptions,
menstrual mayhem,
cycles of chaos,
a fertility fiasco,
and the reproductive riot
that brings only destruction.
@Home Studio – 190th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Uterus photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 188 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I remember the sound of cicadas
as we found frogs in the mud on the
banks of the creek we weren’t really
supposed to be playing in because
my father was certain we were going
to somehow drown in the three feet
of water that trickled and pooled
and invited us siren-like to the middle.
I remember pretending to like fishing
because my older cousin Tim was
collecting worms, and I wanted him
to think I was mature for a little girl
and not squeamish at all about the
wriggling, squirming, slippery, slimy
bits that had to be impaled tip to tail.
I remember the grown-ups always
sitting around sipping sweet tea in
the most boring looking way and
doing nothing but talking and eating
and occasionally laughing or yelling
at one of us to shut the door or quit
coming in and out, and I was certain
I would never want to sit around like
them and be boring when I grew up.
@Home Studio – 188th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Creek photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 187 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
You doin’ ok?
the barista asks someone looking at the menu
You’ve got to be hot because I’m hot
my husband says to me
Unidentifiable ethnic-sounding earth music plays
over the speakers chanting comforting spells
A soprano’s laugh bubbles up above all the other sounds
I’m fine
a tenor responds to someone who asks
My husband whispers or raps or sings to himself
perhaps he is reading out loud, it could be any of the above
because he is rarely silent for long
You’ve lost one of your lenses
a woman says to the elderly man she cares for
I know, he says
does she think he is unaware that he can only half-see?
freeway
I was trying to draw you
spiral
London Fog
to be clear
I think we all know
it’s a reservoir
keep going, Dude
really hammer it home
when I’m on stage
I’m not racist or homophobic
not on purpose
there is a monster
how cute
Chai
Hello
A blender and cups being bussed are the percussive elements that were missing.
Tea-Jasmine
Someone knocks loudly on the restroom door
one-two-three-four in quick succession
and a phone whistles
it just got real
@Genuine Joe’s – 187th poem of the year
Runner ups for the coffee shop photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 186 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Fireworks make my daughter’s emotions swell,
a lump in the throat, eyes fill, heart tight, why?
The beauty of communal celebration, delicate
power on display, explosion of color against a
black background, the artist’s palette consisting
of aluminum and titanium for bright white stars,
copper for the luminous blue, barium for green,
strontium and lithium salts for red, sodium yellow,
calcium orange, the light like a warning, reaching
our eyes a bit before the slower sound can assault
our ears, rattle our chests, and make us nostalgic
for our own births and deaths…the short answer—
she resonates with the message the fireworks
attempt to share, the poetry of imitating the stars.
@Genuine Joe’s – 186th poem of the year
(Poem 185 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
We sit at the barstools and watch
you cook, just like the old days.
Sisters, swinging feet, sipping
tea and coffee, eating Round Rock
donuts, and waiting for a feast.
You’ve made biscuits and gravy,
eggs and bacon, with your honeys
on display in the center of the table.
We chat and laugh and catch up
on the gossip we might have missed.
Hurry, come look, slowly and quietly,
tip toe to the back door, shhhhhhh,
you say, our curiosity peaked.
Just a hot summer Wednesday,
nothing special on the agenda,
but nice, all the same because who
knows how many more hot summer
Wednesdays we get together to eat
our mother’s biscuits and gravy
and stare at a giant baby vulture
fresh from his nursery getting a
drink of water on the back porch.
@Geuine Joe’s – 185th poem of the year
(Poem 184 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/rUA3Kt https://gencraft.ai/p/k2G0lW https://gencraft.ai/p/UdPZrD
My mother’s voice was
a bit exasperated at the
absence of anyone home.
I did not hear the door
behind her as she left,
but hurried to let her know
I was there and say hello.
I opened the front door;
she was already in her car
but she turned off the engine
when she saw me and
decided to come back in,
or so I thought…
In her reality, she just
arrived, had not yet stepped
foot in the house, had felt
no annoyance at the absence
of anyone and made no sound.
What future echo did I hear
that never even happened?
@Genuine Joe’s – 184th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Echoes photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 183 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The sacrificial lamb
for one man’s guilt
results in the death of
one soul split in two.
One name in twain,
bifurcated broken hearts
bent on split loyalties
divided by ideologies.
A dancing duet of
swords and pain,
a dyad in tandem
with lives of service.
This brotherly love
can only end in grief,
for the end of one
means the end of both.
@Home Studio – 183rd poem of the year (Spoiler Alert: after watching House of the Dragon Season 2 Episode 2; Erryk and Arryk.)
Condal, Ryan and George R. R. Martin, creators. House of the Dragon. HBO Entertainment and Warner Bros., 2024.
Runner ups for the Brotherly Love photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 182 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
No one has ever felt as
beautiful as a little girl
with fresh-made puffs.
Her frilly pale pink dress
with shiny shoes and high-
on-the-head earmuffs
are absolutely perfect
for a family wedding she
must attend in a while.
Her little brother in shirt
and vest gets to carry rings
as the bearer down the aisle,
but you can’t tell her a thing;
she’s not in the party but
might as well be the bride,
for the joy she feels looking
like the belle of the ball makes
her little soul swell with pride.
@Home Studio – 182nd poem of the year
(Poem 181 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/VlE1pf https://gencraft.ai/p/51XcWB
According to society,
a woman of a certain
age should guard her
propriety and seek only
suitors who are older.
If she happens to find
herself drawn to a man
of younger persuasion,
she is depicted by those
who have opinions as a
wild hunter who laid
in wait to pounce on
some unsuspecting
man-child and forced
him to mind his manners.
When the roles are
reversed, there is little
batting of eyes because
double standards always
seem to benefit those
who sit on the biggest
thrones in the patriarchy.
@Home Studio – 181st poem of the year (after watching The Idea of You.)
The Idea of You, Showalter,Michael, Amazon Prime Video, 16 March, 2024, Hathaway, Anne.
Runner ups for the Cougar photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 