(Poem 71 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Rain, rain, here all day.
Drench the world and stay to play.
Sky purrs, rumbles low,
trees sway, cool winds blow.
Days like this bring me rest.
The earth and I are truly blessed.
@Home Studio – 71st poem of the year
(Poem 47 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I live in a climate that I love
with cool breezes reminding
me to wear a sweater while
sitting outside on my porch.
The seasons announce themselves
proudly with soft snowfalls,
flower festivals, sunshine,
and hillsides covered in amber.
No longer do I dread the
pain of a Texas summer
with solar flare-esque heat
and drought dry days of
endless monotony painted
dull brown and lifeless.
I wake up each morning
breathing in air free of
hayseed allergens and
cedar pollen intent on
murder and mayhem.
Only fresh scents of flowers
blooming in our garden
next to cilantro, green onion,
and mint call out to me.
And the evening fires
we light (because their
crackle is the perfect
juxtaposition to the crisp
night air) are the right
way to end the day
and toast the sweetness
of this blessed life.
Rebekah Marshall @ – 47th poem of the year
(Poem 44 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am living a vibrant spiritual life,
full of love and joy, peace and calm.
The paraphernalia of ritual surrounds
me in my cave of books and comfort.
An open door invites a breeze as
animals saunter in and out on a whim.
We check on each other through
thought and glance, caress and scent.
Fanciful shadows from candlelight
play with the eye of an owl who
nestles against his own moon.
Time slips through my hourglass,
but I don’t mind because this moment
is eternally engrained in the white sand.
@Home Studio – 44th poem of the year
Runner ups for the owl moon photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 43 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am at peace with myself and those I love.
No animosity hangs stale in the air,
nor anger brews and steeps in silence.
I have forgiven and released, at least for now,
resentments or regrets I may have nursed.
Prayers of blessing, for protection, of thanks
abound this morning as I start my day.
If I steer clear of them, this love I feel, so pure,
so genuine, might last until lunch time.
@Home Studio – 43rd poem of the year
Runner ups for the at peace with those I love photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 33 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Soft rain the show we are watching through
open door, curtain tucked into the waist of
stacked trunks standing guard at least for a
century. How many rains have they seen?
Many more than the cats and dogs staring
with wonder at the wet world; even more
than me with my half-century life spent on
not watching enough rain in the past, so I must
make up for it by analyzing every drop.
@Home Studio – 33rd poem of the year
Runner ups for the rain, animals, trunk photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 18 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“You will know your own innocence again when you can see the love that breathes within every iota of creation.” -Deepak Chopra The Way of the Wizard
Arthur could not see
his own reflection
in the clear water pond
and was afraid to confess
as much to Merlin.
I thought of him today
and the lesson he was
taught in response to
the wonderful news
that a lack of self-image
is a sign of innocence.
To gaze peacefully out
my sliding glass door
is an act of creation,
for the observer plants
the seed of life by
noticing, recalling,
becoming invested in,
and growing to love
the deer who stand
munching, daring the
dogs to bark, antlers
high in defiance,
the squirrels chittering
angrily as they race along
the fence top, provoking
growls and menace,
the birds who nest,
the possums who hide,
the mice who find
their way inside,
the skunks who waddle
around in the dark,
magical beasts who
sparkle with newness
if only we clean our
lenses, witness them afresh,
and listen for the faintest
of songs sung by them all
called, “Behold yourself.”
@Home Studio – 18th poem of the year
Chopra, Deepak. The Way of the Wizard: Twenty Spiritual Lessons for Creating the Life You Want. New York, United States of America, Harmony Books, 1995, pp. 23-28.
Runner ups for the AI cosmic oneness photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 6 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I don’t know how
to write about the real
things that keep me up
at night because
I’ve forgotten what they are.
My mind is as empty as
a lazy metaphor,
my brain smooth silk,
my soul a settled morning pond.
I’m afraid enlightenment
might make me a worse poet.
Do sages fear writer’s block,
Or do they eschew the arts?
Will newfound peace
change my focus such that
my words will suffer?
Have I found the worry stone
to hold in my palm tonight?
Well, looky there, proof
I’m still on the mortal plane,
but I’m getting closer
to the obliteration of self
and who knows what that means…
@Home Studio – 6th poem of the year
(Poem 5 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Candles lit
Cleared space
Tea at the ready
Blank page
Dogs asleep
at my feet
Husband in a
snuggie so
the air can be
comfortable
for the furnace
that is me
Perfect evening
to sit and write
Melt my soul
back to the night
Quiet peace
Edge of dream
Twinkle lights
add softness
Husband’s touch
subtle as a battle cry
but welcome
and enough
Nice to share
a relaxing day
alone together
Our secret foreplay
And when he
switches the laundry
my heart melts
a little bit more
softening edges
I forget are rough,
angry and wounded
in need of love
@Home Studio – 5th poem of the year
(Poem 4 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Well, hello there little bird.
Care for a bit of bread?
You’ve been eyeing it
quite obviously for the last
few minutes. Don’t play coy now.
Come closer if you expect
me to share. A good look at you
the price of the treat
sprinkled with sugar and
cinnamon like the
feathers on your breast.
Your yellow eye stares
at me as you steal a piece
and side step a hop or two
to safety. You better hurry.
That larger blackbird
thinks the rest is for him,
his giant claw stomping,
claiming it for his own,
his beak ripping to bits
the delicate layers you
so gently speared with grace.
@Genuine Joe’s mid-day – 4th poem of the year
(Poem 3 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The first time salting
my window sills, I waited
until everyone in the house
was asleep.
No one could question
the protective measures
taken on their behalf
nor doubt their
efficacy.
Burning sage for the first time
took place behind closed doors,
any scent detected probably
thought to be a strange new
candle, since those are
understood.
My rock collection
continues to grow,
new shades of polished
gems and crystals join
dinosaur excrement and
fossilized wood,
each has its place.
@Genuine Joe’s mid-day – 3rd poem of the year
rebekahjmarshall 