Tag Archives: love

Poetry, Writing

War

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(Poem 130 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/0yYZ6p
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/C9Llca

“Vengeance is mine,” sayeth Ceasar, until his
apemanity kicks in and he is able to be better
than human and allow mercy to unfold naturally.
Who gets to determine the value of a life on
this rock hurtling through space we call home?
Does intellect trump simple existence or one
form of communication imply worth over another?
Is birdsong less a language than human speech
or an elephant’s rumble less valid than words?
Someone I know once said their life would not
be affected by animals going extinct and it
made me sad because I believe the tiny pieces
of our humanity that perish with each species
we forget to save hasten our own souls’ decay.

@Home Studio (after watching War for the Planet of the Apes at Greg’s house with Greg and his family, Debbie, and Celinda on 5/18/24) – 130th poem of the year

Matt Reeves et al., War for the Planet of the Apes. Los Angeles, CA, 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2017.

Runner ups for the War of Apes photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

New York David

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(Poem 129 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Selfie by David Marshall 5/8/24.

New York David is decisive.
He attends business meetings
and lunches with clients and
visits rose gardens simply to
see the sights as a tourist.
New York David stays in hotels
and spends evenings at bars
being someone’s wingman.
He’s an expert in a field I do
not fully understand the
particulars of, nor do I want
to invest the energy to
understand because life is
too short…all I know is that
New York David has planes to
catch and important matters
to settle and will be home
Thursday with his suitcase
and weariness ready to
turn back into Texas David who
lounges in pajamas at home
with his wife and dogs.

@Home Studio – 129th poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

Prescription Refills

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(Poem 128 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/mFTsj4

One, two, three…maybe four
prescriptions need to be filled
because I grow old and less
able to take pride in health
and vigor like I used to, as though
I somehow earned the youthful
ease with which my joints bent,
and my muscles contracted
instantly, and every sinew
responded to my whim with
instant graceful movement;
those people who complained
of aches and stiffness were
somehow at fault for their
functional inadequacies and
I did not recognize my future
reflection in their eyes because
that woman’s lined face was
contorted with pain.

@Greg’s house – 128th poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

The Writing Barn

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(Poem 126 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Photograph I took from inside Buddha Hall at The Writing Barn on 5/5/24.

The oak trees stand guard,
keeping bothersome reality
at bay, ensuring sanctuary
for these tireless artists of
word and story, providing
respite from judgment long
enough for imagination to
begin the process of creative
unfolding, for that is the
only way the art is born
fresh and raw, unfiltered.
Yes, the work of shaping,
peeling, whittling away the
excess will be done to perfect
and sculpt the mass into
something more palatable,
but the first bloody moments of
pain and relief, joy and confusion,
brilliant bursts of kaleidoscopic
invention spilled out into the
universe deserve to be protected.
The oak trees understand
their assignment and take their
oaths very seriously, and for
their loyalty, I am grateful.

@The Writing Barn: Buddha Hall – 126th poem of the year

Photograph I took in Buddha Hall at The Writing Barn on 5/5/24.
Poetry, Writing

Dawn

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(Poem 125 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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There always seems to be someone who hates,
whose resentment fills their soul until nothing
else can fit and the surrounding world must pay.
Everyone who endures suffering must decide
whether to heal or hurt, a weighty choice, for it
affects the fate of your trajectory henceforward.
In matters of the heart, as in matters of state,
humanity should remain centered in our judgment,
and the resulting actions must be measured
carefully to create the least harm to all involved.  

@The Writing Barn: Buddha Hall (after watching Dawn of the Planet of the Apes at Greg’s house with Greg and his family, Debbie, Celinda, and David on 5/4/24) – 125th poem of the year

Reeves, Matt, et al. Dawn of the Planet of the Apes 20th Century Fox, 2014.

Poetry, Writing

Rise

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(Poem 124 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

https://images.app.goo.gl/wJTsFk2Qgnv5pQiQ6
https://images.app.goo.gl/iVqjuik4pPKu2j639
https://images.app.goo.gl/ta3x13DZD917NHcZ9

Anyone who has ever parented a surly teen or
held a baby and felt their entire dependence as
your responsibility can relate to the poignant family
dynamic scenes in Rise of the Planet of the Apes.
Caesar’s coming of age trauma hurts us mothers
and fathers because we watch our own babies
suffer the slings and arrows of this world unprotected.
No matter our desire to rescue them from the pain
of growth, the journey is theirs and theirs alone.
If only the world could be a softer place for our
children, but alas, we must limp along and support
each other, for “alone…weak. Together…strong.”

@The Writing Barn: Buddha Hall (after watching Rise of the Planet of the Apes at Greg’s house with Greg and his family, Debbie, Celinda, and David on 5/4/24) – 124th poem of the year

Rupert Wyatt, et al., Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Beverly Hills, CA, 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2011.

Poetry, Writing

Mema Day

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(Poem 123 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

I took this photograph on Mema’s front porch 5/4/24.

My sister bought a box
of butterflies to release in
honor of Mema’s birthday.
We gathered, all five
generations of us, and
watched in awe as they
emerged from their sleepy
coldness to warm to the
overcast heat of a May day.
Each butterfly took its own
time exploring this new
brightness of air and space,
flitting from tiny human to
big human to ground to
metal rooftop and beyond.
The last Painted Lady
dilly-dallied and decided
to rest a while on a potted
plant on Mema’s porch.
None of us really knew
what to expect and were
pleasantly surprised at the
loveliness of the little
creatures Mema loved so.

@The Writing Barn: Buddha Hall (in honor of Mema’s birthday that was on May 2nd and the butterfly release that was on May 4th. She would have been 89.) – 123rd poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

Aliens and Flowers

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(Poem 120 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/YauaEp
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/7YJLJc

Our most fragile young
sleep in giant moonflowers
and sip the nectar if they are
hungry between feedings.
When they outgrow the
petal-perfect beds nature
constructed just for them,
they learn to sleep on the
knit hammocks strung
delicately between the
lowest branches of the
swaying willow palm trees.
The cloth is woven from
flower stem silk and the
bedding is fresh layered
petals changed nightly.
Our skin becomes the
fragrance of the flowers,
for we are inextricably
intertwined with the vines
and the leaves and the
fronds and the buds.
Then, when we grow too
old to see the stars with
our own eyes, too old
to hear the song of the
silver sycamore boughs,
too old to feel the velvet
of the lambs’ ear bush,
too old to taste the nectar
of the purple dragonmint,
we enter the heart of the
forest to create a nest of
shaggy moss and jelly lichen
cushioned with sweetgrass
and honey death fungus,
and cover ourselves with
layers of galaxy orchids and
phoenix lilies so we can
join our brother flowers in
eternal sleep.

@Home Studio – 120th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Alien Flowers photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

My Anger

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(Poem 119 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/FIy0ZG

My anger used to be the
kind that exploded like an
overheated pressure cooker.
I think it’s because I used
to care; it hurt to feel like
a last resort afterthought.
Now my anger is the kind
that pools in a dirty puddle
and breeds mosquitos.
I think that’s because my
will to care has turned
stagnate, a film formed on
the surface like old milk.

Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio on 4/29/24 @ 9:39pm – 119th poem of the year