(Poem 268 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
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
(Poem 267 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
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:
(Poem 264 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
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):
(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
(Poem 261 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
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:
(Poem 260 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
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:
(Poem 257 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My grandmother Mema’s father’s
father Grandpa Carroll was an extremely
superstitious man who came down
hard on anyone who walked under a
ladder or spilled salt without throwing
some over the shoulder or broke a
mirror without taking proper precautions.
Mema did not remember what the proper
precautions were, as she was a small
child when she got harshly scolded for
spinning a chair on one leg in the dining
room, and her father had to come to
her defense, reprimanding his own
father for spouting such nonsense.
He hated black cats, unlucky numbers,
stepping on cracks, the opening of
umbrellas in the house, speaking of
the dead, and she thinks he told her
about the need to keep an axe under
the bed when a woman is in labor
to protect her from evil spirits about.
She found his stories both horrifying
and confusing, since her parents
countered that they were not true.
As she grew, her only superstition
became the spells of prayer she
uttered without ceasing to protect
her loved ones, which I know saved
us all on a number of occasions.
@Home Studio – 257th poem of the year
(Poem 248 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
To be without Beauty
feels plain and bare,
lacking in something.
A presence at once
regal and understated
has gone missing, and
in its place is an ache,
a pang, maybe a twinge
of listless longing for
some undefined touch
of elegance that is both
gracious and aloof,
familiar and unknowable.
@Home Studio – 248th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Losing Beauty photos to accompany my poem:
1. Beauty & Kage on guard duty.
2. Chika, Beauty, & Cotton Eyed Joe snuggling.
3. Beauty & Chika sharing my chair.
4. Beauty holding hands with Kenji.
5. The last picture I ever took of Beauty—Beauty & Aiko holding hands.
(Poem 247 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Making the call to end a life
weighs heavily on the spirit,
even if the conclusion is an
act of mercy for the beloved
by relieving pain and suffering.
Only those who have spent
years with another in close
proximity, shared their lives
intimately, and were tasked
with taking the initiative to
usher in the end know the
reluctance with which the
decision is made and how
heavy the heart to speak the
truth that life has become a
burden rather than a blessing.
@Home Studio – 247th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Making the Call photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 240 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Scabbers lived the good life
for 12 years with the Weasley
family, a suspiciously long
time for a rat with teenage
boys for primary caretakers.
Enemy of Crookshanks for
false accusations of ratricied,
motivation for Sirius to flee
Azkaban after spotting him,
found in Hagrid’s cabin where
he hid like the coward he is,
an Animagus whose unforgivable
betrayal created orphans of
too many children to count.
@Home Studio – 240th poem of the year (After watching it at Cinemark with Debbie, Celinda, David, & Charlotte on 8/27/24 for Back to Hogwarts Week)
Cuarón, Alfonso, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, Rupert Grint, Warner Bros., 2004.
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