Tag Archives: mental health

Plasma Blobs

(Poem 269 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/OvDj2h

Plasma is rare
on earth,
though found
in abundance
everywhere else
in space.
And now scientists
are telling us
that these blobs
that are not solid,
liquid, or gas,
but another state:
communicate,
behave predatorially,
congregate,
interact with satellites,
get the zoomies,
race excitedly
toward thunderstorms,
form crystals—
corkscrew shaped
like DNA,
and may be inorganic
non-biological life
or pre-life,
and we’re supposed
to go on sipping our tea
and paying our bills.

@Home Studio – 269th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Plasma photos to accompany my poem:

How Will We Know

(Poem 268 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

Can agony
awaken possibility?
Is it painful
for the seed
to sprout,
or is the bursting out
more like relief?
Will something fresh
find its way through
the detritus
and despair,
and if so,
how will we know
when we can
hope again?

@Home Studio – 268th poem of the year

It makes me sad

(Poem 267 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

It makes me so sad
that people hurt
others and break
their own hearts,
that alleviating pain
destroys so many
from the inside out,
and we must endure
misfortune and loss,
especially if we allow
ourselves to love
with the full volume
of our souls.

@Home Studio – 267th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Sad photos to accompany my poem:

Artifact M123ST

(Poem 266 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Artifact M123ST was found in the ruins
of one of the few habitations to have
survived the cataclysm mostly intact.
It is a six-sided rectangular box. We are
unable to ascertain the container’s true
purpose but feel certain it must have
been used to store items of religious or
spiritual significance, or it has also been
suggested that they were used as protective
casings for one of their most valuable
assets–sand. It is known that sand became
a valuable commodity prior to the cataclysm,
as it was one of the fundamental, critical
components of building materials in their
world. Undecipherable characters appear
to be inscribed in patterns, though the
sample size is too small to determine if
it is representative of language, or merely
decorative scrawling. Of special interest
is the latching mechanism that holds the
lid of the box closed. A small rectangular
indentation can be pressed, releasing the
latch, which permits the lid to spring open.
A satisfying click indicates the lid has been
closed securely when the latch reengages.
We know little of these primitive people who
lived before the cataclysm, but artifacts such
as these offer a glimpse into their lost culture.

@Home Studio – 266th poem of the year

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/Ne1Ypc

My Man is in Japan

(Poem 265 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

(My man in Japan.)

My man
is in Japan
learning what he can
from teachers who understand
that the world is vast, and dreams are grand
for those who are willing to stretch and expand
both body and spirit by making a personal demand
that pliability and fortitude exist when things unplanned
knock us off center, we discover that we are able to withstand
most of life’s assaults with a calm heart, a quiet mind, and an open hand.

@Home Studio – 265th poem of the year

Washing the Knife

(Poem 264 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

Maybe the way
I wash this knife
with precision,
erasing the past
with friction,
soap, and molecules
is in some little way
the meaning of life.

Maybe scraping
the crusty
remnants of drippage
on countertops
until the rag slides smooth
is its own reward
somehow.

Maybe the fact
that hot
water melts
butter residue
from a dish,
inviting it to slip
effortlessly from its former
state
and find freedom
in movement
is the most real
thing I know,
or think
I know,
or want
to know
because knowing
is somehow solid,
purposeful, sure,
and I suspect
that I know
nothing,
or there is nothing
to know,
or knowing
means nothing,
thus,
washing a knife
is the meaning
of life.

@Home Studio – 264th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Washing Dishes photos to accompany my poem (AI had a hard time with this one):

Visiting Rome

(Poem 263 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

I’m zipping
through the streets
of Italy
on a motorbike,
past the Colosseum,
looking with my eyes,
not my phone.
Being beside
things built
to last
slows
the pace
of time
to cobblestone
roads
that lead
to fountains
and statues
who’ve seen
many iterations of me
over the last thousand years
gazing back
at them.
Buongiorno,
they cheer across the plaza
to welcome me back again.

@Home Studio – 263rd poem of the year (inspired by an episode of Emily in Paris set in Rome)

Star, Darren, et al. Emily in Paris. “Roman Holiday” Los Angeles, CA, Paramount, 2024.

Mom Dinner

(Poem 262 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

These days, people are always on
about girl dinner and boy dinner,
but what about Mom dinner?
That’s the meal where you get a
spoonful of the stir-fry you are
making to taste what seasonings
are needed, a bite of each veggie
as you chop it, a spoonful of baby
food to show them how yummy
it is, and one chicken nugget that
was left on your child’s plate and
looked forlorn all by its lonesome.
You dip a carrot stick in ketchup
and eat half a string cheese that
was left on the counter by a kid.
The last swig of backwash apple
juice remaining in a sippy cup
might be what you get to drink.
Ask any Mom what a Mom dinner
is and the same haggard face of
recognition will nod in sympathy.

@Home Studio – 262nd poem of the year

Safekeeping

(Poem 261 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

I am always fascinated
by people unafraid to
share the gruesome
details of their lives
with the rest of us so
we can hold them up
to the light and examine
their every wart and
crack, wrinkle and roll
of fat like specimens.
But the glass jar with
pink paper inside that
made the cover look
warm and inviting was
a trap that forced me
to witness her most
vulnerable moments,
and now I feel sad and
embarrassed for her.

@Home Studio on 9/17/24 @ 7:45pm – 261st poem of the year (After reading Safekeeping-some true stories from a life by Abigail Thomas.)

Thomas, Abigail. Safekeeping -some true stories from a life. Anchor Books, 2001.

Runner ups for the Safekeeping photos to accompany my poem:

How to Hold a Cockroach

(Poem 260 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/W0ZpTf

I know how to hold a cockroach.
That is not the problem. The real
problem is in the willingness to
hold the cockroach because I
don’t want to. I absolutely know
intellectually that the cockroach
will not harm me, and I absolutely
know spiritually that cockroaches
are God’s creatures, too, and I
absolutely know psychologically
that the exercise is good for my
psyche and all that jazz, but I
still don’t want to extend my hand
and allow the cockroach to climb
aboard and scurry all around. I
just got chills up my spine thinking
about it because the story is still
too strong that my mind makes up,
and I’m just not ready to let it go.

@Home Studio – 260th poem of the year (After reading How to Hold a Cockroach by Matthew Maxwell.)

Maxwell, Matthew. Illustrations by Allie Daigle. How to Hold a Cockroach – A book for those who are free and don’t know it, Hearthstone, 2020.

Runner ups for the Cockroach photos to accompany my poem: