(Poem 50 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I am a woman of integrity.
What you see is what you get—
the whole package wrapped up
in flaws, sewn together with
duct tape and staple-shaped
scars but built to endure adversity.
My O-rings maintain elasticity
no matter the cold they endure,
resilience practically my middle
name, so fire away and prepare
to launch; what could go wrong?
@Home Studio – 50th poem of the year
(Poem 48 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My Mema passed away this morning. I had the privilege of spending 50 years in her presence. I will miss her something fierce. She has a husband she was married to for over 70 years, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren, not to mention every other possible connection to people far and wide.
I lotioned your feet, then hands
with white jasmine-scented
Bath & Body Works Miriam gave me
and tucked you in the way you like,
brushed your hair and read you your texts,
then some Bible verses of comfort—
Isaiah 40, the first one that surfaced.
The steady sounds of the ICU create
a strangely soothing white noise as a
backdrop to your labored breaths.
Lydia is here again to hold your hand
just one more time; one of many
one more times over the last few days
because each time could be the last.
The you I know is no longer here,
but the shell remains and deserves
gentle petting and reassurance.
Goodness knows how many times
you had to ‘there, there’ me in the last
50 years, buoying my spirits and righting
my sails with your steady faith and calm.
Boaz sat vigil until I arrived, and your
children and husband will take over after
I leave — we are all branches of a grand
candelabra you have lit with exuberance,
spreading across states and time, thankful to
have been influenced by the life you lived
and the love which from your cup overflowed.
@ICU Room 1 St. David’s Round Rock Hospital & Home Studio – 48th 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 46 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I live in a village
with supportive women
surrounding me
and I am loved.
A miniature donkey
greets me like
a doting dog
begging for treats,
and a chicken
follows me everywhere
I go because she
loves sitting in my
lap while I write.
As a child, I never
longed for this life;
it just happened
when I was busy
doing the business
of being my best
self and nurturing
the guests who
show up in need
of a crust of bread
and a cool glass of
water on their
journey home.
@Home Studio – 46th poem of the year
(Poem 40 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
You make me so angry.
Then you want to go on
with conversation as if nothing
has tilted my axis, forever
altering my perception of you.
I am not designed as others.
Once you lose my respect,
it is difficult to gain it back.
Refusal to explain when
confronted seems to be
your protective measure
to maintain privacy, dignity?
I am man, I owe nothing to
no one, hear me roar,
but to me it is weakness,
denying vulnerability,
insisting others accept
your reality without a hint
of clarification for those of
us whose realities include
other humans in community.
How strange to be a lone
commuter on this subway of
life without a care for
anyone else.
@Genuine Joe’s – 40th poem of the year
(To the mediocre musician. On the guitar. A Psalm of Rebekah.)
(Poem 38 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
May the Lord listen to your prayers;
may you feel blessed to be alive.
May you never have to wait too long
for packages you ordered to arrive.
May your coffee stay hot ‘til the last drop,
and your Wi-fi connection be strong.
May your wait-times be short when you’re on hold
and your days off feel pleasantly long.
May the dogs come when you call
and never escape through the fence.
May your children behave out in public
and your dishes be easy to rinse.
May your bills get paid on time in full
and your credit score be high.
May you look at the person you’re in love with
and never wonder why.
May your shows renew and stream with ease;
may no spoilers give away the end.
May you have the best time filming yourself,
taking part in the latest trend.
May the book you’re reading have a sequel,
and you win the game you play.
May your friends all want to come to your gig,
and you have a lovely day.
For simple are the joys that comfort our hearts
when chaos is all around.
And plenty of thanks is our if we notice
the blessings that abound.
(Inspired by reading the Psalms of the Bible) – 38th poem of the year
(Poem 37 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I set you up, poor
Cotton Eye’d Joe;
curiosity killed my curio.
The young dog
you barely knew,
of course startled
your eyes of blue.
Away you flew
like a wounded dove
shattering branches
of porcelain trees
in your fearful flight
to safety.
@Home Studio – 37th poem of the year
(Poem 36 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“If titanic forces like gravity and the immense energies that fuel stars manage to coexist without destroying one another, then your own life will be upheld…you are a privileged child of the universe, entirely safe, entirely supported, entirely loved.” -Deepak Chopra’s The Way of the Wizard
Love is often a response to being loved,
as unconditional love happens most when
no conditions have been prescribed.
The only way to truly love another,
is to first love the self that feels unworthy.
The layers of fear that encrust the heart
must be chipped away by a feather touch.
A seeker seeks love like a fish looks for water,
unaware that it pervades and surrounds,
is, was, and will be source and sustenance.
@Home Studio – 36th 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.57-63.
(Poem 34 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I don’t feel like writing poetry right now.
I’ve had a long day of trainings and a
plethora of non-creative tasks to slog
through while snacking on Doritos.
I took an analyst position so I would have
reserves of spirit left at the end of the
day to work on art, yet artificial I has
sapped my strength and there’s nothing
left of my I that wants to compose.
I’ll read a bit, watch a few shows, force
myself to eat a vegetable, and even take
a shower before falling in bed with TikTok.
Perhaps tomorrow AI will do more of the
work and I will be inspired to shape some
prose into streams of flower petals
dipped in ink and melded on the surface
of the internet like a child’s craft with too
much glue and glitter to be seen as
beautiful, but something you keep around
because it was the thought that counts.
@Home Studio – 34th poem of the year
Runner ups for the AI gooey child craft photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 30 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
No governing body can rule our spirits once
we have had an out-of-body experience
transporting us to realms of celestial bodies
that remind us we are more than mortal bodies
or just a warm body being body-shamed
and selling our bodies for survival.
The beauty of truth is that we have no
body double, nobody exactly like us;
even clones are their own, nor do we
deserve to be treated as such – no matter
what they claim they caught on their
body cams while hollowing out our
body cavities because of our
body odor…body piercings…frequency of
body shots…over our dead bodies.
We must refuse to do perpetual body checks
and shrink ourselves with body wraps
cranking the heat on our body temperature
to make ourselves smaller, then body slamming
ourselves for lack of perfect beach bodies,
our inner mafiosos dropping bodies out of the
body of a plane as punishment for our size,
while pretending to have body positivity.
Our body of work grows in proportion
to our body of knowledge like a vast
body of water when we finally
forget to pay attention to the
body of opinion of the masses aiming
their frigid body language toward any
body politic who chooses their
heavenly body over body building.
When we love, body and soul,
without a jealous bone in our bodies
and believe in the wisdom of others
akin to fruiting bodies, contrary to the
body of evidence doubters spout
claiming body mass index a god…
body snatchers will try to rack up
body counts, forcing people into body bags
with body blows because they are afraid of
somebody, anybody, and everybody who are
bodyguards of our own fate, more concerned with
body heat from bodysurfing galaxies than what
bodies without souls think of our body rolls.
@Home Studio – 30th poem of the year
Runner ups for the AI Mystical Big Bodies photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 