Tag Archives: love

Poetry, Writing

The View From a Balcony

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(Poem 332 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/pH9ZaO https://gencraft.ai/p/JSrmnT https://gencraft.ai/p/qh1VIp

The view from a balcony
is beautiful no matter the
size of the body doing the gazing.

The heart that beats
is full of love no matter the
circumference of the hips.

The mind with ambitions
is powerful no matter the
mass of the dreamer.

The soul of the saint
is expansive no matter the
confines of human form.

@Home Studio – 332nd poem of the year

Runner ups for the Balconies photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Serenity

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(Poem 331 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

“GOD, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the ability to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

When I’m able to sink
into silent, safe serenity,
the surrounding uncertainty
stills and settles
like stones in a bowl
that each have a place
nestled one on top
of the other.

Solid weightlessness
exists in this place
of serendipity and peace
that only arrives once
acceptance has forgotten
that change is even necessary,
and wisdom has loosened
her corset to surrender
herself to the sweet
sensation of release.

@Home Studio – 331st poem of the year

Runner ups for the Serenity photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Skin Deep Disappointment

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(Poem 330 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/gmUzt6

My heart hurt with crushing disappointment
after the news of the election was released.
I felt sadness about the reality of the people
who would be affected by inhumane policies.

I have so much more to learn to be an ally
for those I love because it never occurred to me
to be afraid for my husband or granddaughter
whose skin is more melanated than mine.

Lying in bed, bemoaning the next four years,
my husband admitted to being nervous about
walking the dog the next morning because it
will be dark and racists might feel emboldened.

My breath caught to think a thought so horrible,
and realize those are the thoughts my husband
has grown up with, must live with, is burdened by,
and over half our nation is just fine with that.

@Home Studio on 12/4/24 @ 8:52pm – 330th poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

Toto

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(Poem 329 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Like father like son

This little boy is a man now,
marrying a really lovely girl.
His dad’s a crier at weddings,
so I can only imagine the scene.

Dad’s Toto to his grandchildren,
spends time with each of them,
loves to play and be a kid
to the point that reality’s a blur.

I’m trying to meditate away
my anxiety about how he’ll
handle himself at the ceremony,
and then later when he gives a toast.

For his oldest baby’s sake,
I hope he can hold it together
and let the spotlight be on the bride
and groom, rather than his tears.

@Home Studio on 12/4/24 @ 8:19pm – 329th poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

Tornado Girl

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(Poem 328 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/18xmpI https://gencraft.ai/p/f9l3uc https://gencraft.ai/p/uAWdon

When stuff stirs sideways and begins to knot up
in that twisting way, my heart starts to beat
like thunder, hail pounding in my head
to the rhythm of chaotic swirling
pain that builds and swells
with groaning as I eat
houses and cars,
ripping peace
to slivered
shreds
.

@Home Studio – 328th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Tornado Girl photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

I am that mother

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(Poem 326 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/dOImw2

I didn’t think I was that mother,
the one who cleans and cooks,
looks out the window every time
a car drives by or a tree branch
bends in a way that catches her eye
and repeatedly checks her phone
for updates on her son’s progress
since he’s driving cross country
heading south with her daughter-
in-law for their wedding ceremony
here in a Texan outdoor cathedral,
but apparently, I am that mother.

@Home Studio – 326th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Mother photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Friendsgiving

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(Poem 322 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Photographs taken by Rebekah J. Marshall 11/17/24.

Friends gathered
around a table
sharing a meal
giving thanks for each other
and the chance to be together.
Laughter and stories
between bites
of chicken fried steak,
fried catfish, fried okra,
rosemary chicken Greek salad,
mashed potatoes,
mac & cheese, Caribbean rice,
candied yams, black-eyed peas,
and buttermilk pie.
Austin-style Southern cooking
is perfect for my first
ever Friendsgiving.

@Home Studio – 322nd poem of the year poem of the year (After lunch with Debbie, Celinda, Yulia, Jenni, and Paula.)

Runner ups for the Friendsgiving photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Tracker

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(Poem 321 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

https://images.app.goo.gl/XbwtxjNvg4LAak628

He calls
himself a rewardist
because everyone’s looking
for something,
and he knows
how to find
what’s missing.
Survival may be predicated
on who needs whom
the least,
but lone wolf strategies
are mythical,
aberrant, peculiar,
resulting in attachment
deficits.
Follow the signs,
recognize the strides,
read the scuff marks
and toe digs,
transfers and heel marks,
ignore false trails
and counter-tracking.
The desperate pleas
of loved ones offering reward
must believe
the ache of hope,
fear and adrenaline
will keep the living alive
long enough for the bruising
and crying to tell a story
that leads
to being found.

@Home Studio – 321st poem of the year (Watching the show Tracker on CBS.)

Winters, Ben, Tracker, Justin Hartley, Beekeeper Entertainment, 2024.

Poetry, Writing

Becoming Supernatural

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(Poem 320 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

To become supernatural
one must eat oranges
and play with kaleidoscopes,
listen to the blood pumping
through moving veins
and feel the pulse
in tips of toes.

If the past tries to creep
like a lingering rumor
up the brain stem,
one must unscrew
the scalp and release
the humors
to the heavens and beyond.

When the future
feels like a memory
of a once-forgotten story
told right now,
someone has reached
the pinnacle,
or started over.

Either way,
the electricity that hums
from an unknown source
downloads
unknowable truths
into highways of blood
and bone.

@Home Studio – 320th poem of the year (While reading Becoming Supernatural by Dr. Joe Dispenza.)

Dispenza, Dr. Joe, Becoming Supernatural, Hay House, 2017.

Runner ups for the Supernatural photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Baby Blue VW Bug

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(Poem 318 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

My dream car
was a 1971 Baby Blue
Volkswagen Beetle
with the engine in the back
and a bonnet for storage.
A Canadian guy named Dana
introduced me to his car
and I fell in love—
with the car,
not Dana.
Although, Dana was cute,
reminiscent of Bill
from Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure,
but was much too old
for me to have a crush
on because I was maybe twelve.
That handsome car,
however,
was a respectable fourteen,
and I was smitten.
I begged my father
to let me have one
when I turned sixteen,
but he broke my heart
and declared bugs
deathtraps,
forbidding me from ever
even riding in one.
My cousin,
the son of my father’s twin brother,
blood of my blood,
he got a bug,
my love forever unrequited.

@Home Studio – 318th poem of the year