Tag Archives: mental health

Poetry, Writing

My Sweet Aunt Mary

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(Poem 361 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

My sweet Aunt Mary would absolutely say that it is not a waste of time to spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. What greater way to spend one’s time than analyzing each forked twig and bough, penciling on paper the exact tally for limb 27.4? All my powers of focus, balance, strength, and intellect are at play, and Amelia (that’s the name of the tree in question) absolutely adores the attention. It’s been years since we spent an entire day together and we’ve missed one another immensely. I may or may not complete the task, but that is not important. The act of singular wonder amidst nature’s display of resilience is the thing.

My dear friend Mary would also understand my anger at certain words when they will not appear in my mind’s screen, how my brain screams words like resentment and frustration and hate at the missing word, but what I really mean is, please come back, I miss you, I need you, don’t leave me.

Mary and I know we’re not invited, but still sort of wish we could experience being a whirling dervish because there’s something in the spinning magic of their dance that speaks to our souls.

Once, when I was a bird, I flew over Mary as she took her morning walk along the tree line. I waited to see if she would notice me, but she seemed lost in thought, or maybe prayerful. She chuckled to herself, as though laughing at her own joke, then stopped to study something in the dirt.

When I grow up, I want to be Mary’s dog Percy. Oh, to be loved with such devotion and cared for in my old age, as Percy was. To be accepted, encouraged, admired, and appreciated just for being me—stinky, silly, lazy, and a devoted friend. To sit all day and listen to Mary chat and read, napping with my head in her lap as she scratches my ears, saved from rough beginnings by the kindness of that gracious lady. And when I died, I would not argue about whether or not God made me. I would know.

@Home Studio – 361st poem of the year (After reading Mary Oliver’s book of poems A Thousand Mornings.)

Oliver, Mary. A Thousand Mornings, Penguin Books, 2012.

Runner ups for the Mary Oliver photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Christmas Breakfast

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(Poem 360 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Photo taken 12/25/24 by my sister-in-law Brittany Hefner.

Christmas morning
was all the fun and family
it should be this year,
with 3 little ones
to enjoy the excitement
of gifts and games.

The grown-ups sat
around drinking coffee
and feasted on homemade
cinnamon rolls, egg tater tot
casserole, mountains of bacon,
biscuits and gravy,
eggnog bread pudding with
eggnog whipped cream.

There was just the right
amount of silliness
and chaos and squeals,
and plenty of laughter,
as we all reconnected.

We continued the tradition
Mema liked to share
from her childhood—
orange, apple, pecans,
walnuts, and peppermints
in everyone’s stockings.

Mema would be pleased
that Grandad was right
in the middle of it all,
and was as thrilled as
a kid to open the biggest,
brightest flashlight
known to man as a gift
from one of his grandsons.

Last night, neither Grandad
nor I could sleep. His legs
were hurting and restless,
my cough was keeping
me up, so we were wandering
the house like ghosts at 2am.
Come look, he said,
after swinging open the back
door, standing in the
doorway in his pajamas.
Feel how heavy it is,
he said as he handed his
new toy flashlight to me.
Well, turn it on, he said.
I pushed the button
and nearly gasped as the entire
yard all the way to the barn
was bathed in daylight.
It felt magical,
such power in the palm
of my hand.

Mema would have swatted
both our behinds,
and loved that we are all
taking care of each other.

@Home Studio – 360th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Christmas Breakfast photos to accompany my poem:

Photos taken 12/25/24 by my sister-in-law Brittany Hefner.

Poetry, Writing

Looking at Lights

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(Poem 359 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/n98AKs

My husband loves
to drive around aimlessly
looking for Christmas lights
this time of year
when Christmas music
is the only thing that plays
on Magic 95.5 FM
on the car radio.

There are always entire
neighborhoods that seem
to have caught the spirit,
and those are to be expected,
but more surprising is the
one house that chooses
to decorate in the midst
of a sea of surrounding darkness.

Or my favorite, the lone
darkish house in that
over-the-top community
that obviously is just
too tired or disinterested
to participate fully,
and instead throws a few
lights over one little bush.

We always judge like we
are experts in house lighting,
forgetting temporarily
that we have never put
a single light on any house
ever, but that doesn’t matter
because we are mad
with power—
The award for biggest carbon footprint goes to, drumroll please…
The award for best Star Wars themed yard goes to…
The award for most snowmen
The award for prettiest light show
The award for Halloween-turned-Christmas
The award for most nostalgic
The award for creepiest gigantic blow-up creature hovering above the house
The award for most crap thrown together at the last minute

And a few honorable mentions
for the ones who look like they
started to decorate, but got tired
halfway through and just gave up.

@Home Studio – 359th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Looking at Lights photos to accompany my poem:

We saw a bunch of blow-up Christmas characters this year. They have gotten really popular.

Meh…we tried…

Poetry, Writing

Grading Papers

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(Poem 358 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/wz0d0Y https://gencraft.ai/p/peMDKV

Grading papers is one of the least
loved responsibilities of most teachers
and certainly not a favorite pastime of mine.

It is probably one of the tasks I bid farewell
with the most glee when I retired from
teaching human beings and switched to AI.

Little did I know, I would be toiling over
their interpretations of various responses
to prompts, as I have for multiple decades,
and with much the same amount of enthusiasm.

I will say, I have not been spit at, called any names,
or felt the need to put an arm’s length of physical
space between us, just in case, when giving feedback.

But I still get attitude, excuses, attempts at humor
to deflect, shifting of blame, and half-hearted
apologies, occasionally, to keep me on my toes.

@Home Studio – 358th poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

Jimmy Carter

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(Poem 357 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

https://images.app.goo.gl/VWZUtHrTkD2UjCc17

A righteous man puts others before himself,
serves his community with humility and grace,
and is faithful to his vows, both to God and man.

Born on a farm, no running water, no electricity,
salt of the earth, family man, believer in human rights,
treating people with dignity, and freedom of religion.

He was the first president to talk about climate change,
an environmentalist at heart, a lover of the earth, supported
renewable energy by putting solar panels on the White House.

He signed legislation to manage hazardous waste,
protected over 100 million acres of Alaskan land,
and more than doubled the National Park System.

He passed the Ethics in Government Act to protect
whistle-blowers, established FEMA, and was part
of some of the first emergency planning in America.

He created the Departments of Education and Energy,
and established full diplomatic relations with China,
which created the basis for our world economic system.

He championed human rights around the world and was
the first president to focus on these issues and appoint
a woman as Assistant Secretary of State for Human Rights.

Mr. President Jimmy Carter is the first president I remember,
his serious face talking about important things on our black
and white television on every single channel, interrupting.

That’s how different it was back then; when the president
spoke, everyone stopped what they were doing to listen.
I was enamored of this kind man with gentle eyes.

I knew nothing of politics, nothing of the burdens adults endured,
but I knew that this sincere man was doing what he could
to make the world a better place with every ounce of his soul.

Rest in peace, Sir; your debt to the world has been paid
with every house you helped build, person you lifted up,
oppressor you held accountable, and kindness you shared.

@Home Studio – 357th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Jimmy Carter photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Ham Sandwich

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(Poem 356 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/VVIet0

When given his druthers,
more often than not,
Grandad chooses a ham
sandwich for lunch.

What about roasted chicken,
beef stew, spaghetti, or pizza?
No, just a ham sandwich
sounds good today.

Honey wheat sliced bread,
no need for toasting,
Kraft, the only mayonnaise,
and ham, no cheese.

Would you like some chips
or a salad on the side?
No, just a ham sandwich
sounds good today.

What about to drink—
iced tea, root beer?
Coke, water, juice, or milk?
His drink choice holds variety.

But if I try to fancy things up,
offer garnish or fruit slices?
No, just a ham sandwich
sounds good today.

@Home Studio – 356th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Ham Sandwich photos to accompany my poem:

AI couldn’t figure out how to assemble the sandwich.

AI was not exactly sure what to do with the mayo. Coca Cola Mayo!!!lol

These actually look really tasty, but Grandad would never eat cucumbers or ask for anything green on his sandwiches.

Floating sandwich.
Sandwich served on a block of wood.
Anime sandwich.
Sandwich tower–how would you eat this thing?

Poetry, Writing

A Good Doctor

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(Poem 355 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

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

I didn’t expect to be heard,
for him to sit across from me
and create space for all my woes—
the back, the knees, the hips,
the medications, the liver problems,
the dreams of being a dancer again
someday if only the pain would permit…
nor expect him to examine
my movement, strength, balance,
coordination, and flexibility.

He was thorough and kind,
asked about my living situation,
support system, emotional health,
career, hobbies, and activity levels.

He made suggestions,
asked my opinion,
answered my questions,
and then we made a plan—
together.

@Home Studio – 355th poem of the year

Poetry, Writing

DNA

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(Poem 354 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/gN71Gb

The spiral ladders of DNA
that make us who we are
could fill eternity with the
variations and unique
combinations of traits,
but a few things remain
constant as the sunrise—
we’re all made of sugar,
acid, and stone, at least,
that’s the way I remember.

Deoxyribo is the sugar part;
nucleic acid is nitrogen and
phosphates found in the
nucleus, the acid and rock.
All living things have four
bases that make up their
chromosomes, two couples
who are mated for life—
Adenine with Thymine,
Cytosine with Guanine,
till death do they part.

We can’t do anything about
our mendelian traits,
they are etched in our bones,
but other genes can be turned
on or off depending on factors
around, in, because of, or
in spite of our efforts and the
forces of nature, our environment,
our thoughts, feelings, beliefs,
and everything else we are
buffeted by against our will.

There will come a day
when disease will be cured
by fixing the program,
turning on or off the genes
we already have written
in our code but simply
need someone to tinker
with a little, so much
gentler than the draconian
medical procedures
of cut and remove,
destroy and cauterize;
our descendants will feel
sorry for what we endured,
and study us in awe
of our blind faith.

@Home Studio – 354th poem of the year

Runner ups for the DNA photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Married at First Sight

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(Poem 353 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

https://images.app.goo.gl/zuNc7FPEYszqwr1q7

What kind of courage must it take
to agree to marry a complete stranger?
To put your fate in the hands of professional
matchmakers who will find you a mate?

What kind of failures in relationships
and heartbreak must you have experienced
to decide your picker is irrevocably broken,
so you’re better off letting someone else decide?

What kind of hope must bubble up
as you dress for your wedding day,
eager to meet the man or woman
you might spend all your days with?

What kind of crash course in communication
could possibly prepare two people
who’ve only just met to dive into
a honeymoon and sleep in the same bed?

What kind of crazy, wild optimism
drives two people to move in together,
combine households, be vulnerable,
and believe in falling in love with a stranger?

@Home Studio – 353rd poem of the year (Based on the show Married at Frist Sight, Nashville, Season 16.)

Married at First Sight, Nashville, Season 16, Chris Coelen, Eric Detwiler, Montre Burton, Kinetic Content, FYI, Lifetime, 2023.

Runner ups for the Married at First Sight photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Racoon Tea Party

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(Poem 352 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/UuhkJ4

The monthly meeting
of the forest animals
started as a racoon
tea party, but soon grew
to include mice, a rabbit,
a few squirrels, and an
occasional deer or two.

They haven’t changed
the name from the initial
Racoon Tea Party title,
but will probably vote
next time on a new event
headline that more
adequately captures
their essential makeup.

Because, really, it’s not
even about the tea, either.
The tea is a nice incidental
part of every gathering,
of course, but the real
meat of the assembly
is stimulating discussion
of all matters consequential.

Whether it be politics,
religion, philosophy, science
the nature of reality, love,
literature, finance, history,
the arts, alchemy, astronomy,
anthropology, languages,
or artificial intelligence,
the conversation is deep.

Albert racoon always steers
the discussion to matters
economical, which irritates
Edward racoon to no end.
And Amos squirrel tends to
interrupt Silas rabbit anytime
he brings up weather patterns.
Olivia squirrel snorts disagreement.

Freda racoon can never get
a word in edgewise because
Agnes racoon prattles on about
the pharmaceutical industry
at every opportunity, and loudly,
but, all in all, they have a roaring
good time every month around dusk
at their meeting of the minds.

@Home Studio – 352nd poem of the year

Runner ups for the Racoon Tea Party photos to accompany my poem: