I am so sorry, sweet Kura, for being a bad steward. I am treading water and barely staying afloat. Between trying to keep people, dogs, cats, plants, and an opossum alive, none can really thrive, certainly not me and, obviously, not you. I am guilty of neglect, and you deserve better. I already spoke with your former caretaker, and she has agreed to nurse you back to health, I only hope it is not too late.
@Home Studio on 6/18/24 @ 10:37pm – 164th poem of the year
@Home Studio – 163rd poem of the year (See below for poem in easier to read format)
I’m not much for flying flags of any kind. Raised a conscientious objector in a niche religion in the Bible Belt South, I was taught my allegiance belonged only to God. No pledges to countries, states, or other designations were acceptable, and certainly no banners representing such entities need adorn my person, home or belongings. Yet, I’ve always felt a swell of emotion when the National Anthem is sung, people covering their hearts in reverence. In recent years, I’ve learned of the Pan-African flag that many in the black communities are adopting to show allegiance to their roots, and the Juneteenth flag representing when more Americans than ever were finally rescued from enslavement. I live in Texas, where many seem more loyal to the state flag than any other, a people of the lone star who would once again be fine with setting up their own country if it means liberals stop messing in their business. I was an adult when I realized the United States flag is an ever-changing configuration of stars as states are added to the union. When Flag Day was made a federal holiday, there were only 13. This country has grown to 50, and will probably expand more in my lifetime.
At the center of the universe is a sunflower that radiates beautiful, perpetual energy— spirals and sparks, rays and bolts, streams and streaks— emanating every which way from the black inflorescence. Each petal bursts forth with eternal seeds of galactic life, bound for destinations pre- determined by destiny’s map.
@Home Studio – 160th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Power Source photos to accompany my poem:
Every opossum should have a hammock for the purpose of reclining and lounging. They spend the night mastering feats dynamic, then cleaning little hands after scrounging.
Their weary bodies need 18 hours of sleep, so it’s amazing we ever catch them awake. A suspended soft perch ensures nary a peep, as they dream of eating cake and a steak.
Yes, every opossum deserves a hanging bed where they can climb to a safe, warm retreat. There they can nestle and rest a tired head to nap in peace and dream of sweet meat.
@Home Studio – 158th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Opossum Hammock photos to accompany my poem:
“Long live the Rose that grew” and shared her life with you, a man of principles and strength, a man who’ll go to any length to be your rock who is stable and always put food on the table.
Long live the man who knew that his love for Rose was true, a woman of conviction and force, a woman who looks good on a horse, who would battle on your behalf and knows how to make you laugh.
@Home Studio – 152nd poem of the year
Shakur, Tupac. The Rose That Grew from Concrete. New York: Pocket Books, 2009.
No matter where I go, there I am, at the center of my universe, with every vector of possibility extending outward to infinity and beyond. When I can settle and still the turmoil of my soul, I can see the heavens in my own being. I know the sun does not truly rise in the sky, nor is the horizon the edge of the world, yet I live as though I believe the earth is flat and this is all there is to my being. It is a lie that the past creates the present and the present creates the future, when memories of the future can inform the present and change my very perception of the past I thought I knew. I can live tomorrow’s dream today if only I choose to look beyond the veil and accept that I am a wizard, rather than a human bound by fate. I am the relationship between nowhere and now here because I have localized eternity to this point in time and choose to focus on this present.
@Home Studio – 143rd 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.109-115.
Runner ups for the Eternity photos to accompany my poem:
Shall I build a spire atop my roof and invite the townspeople to a grand ball with a string quartet? Or shall I plant a rose garden hedged in by topiaries and pebble paths bordered by flower beds? Or shall I plan a high tea with clotted cream, scones, and jam, cucumber sandwiches all around? If it’s a rainy day, should I pass the time by taking an afternoon lover and lounge on satin cushions? If I’m feeling melancholy, shall I read a book of poems by candlelight and cry luxuriously at the romance? Once I pay bills and file my taxes, get my oil changed and check the mail, grocery shop and gas up the car, shall I start on my new to do list? Yes, I think I shall.
AI is puzzled by human hands. They are used for grasping objects and gesturing, typing on keyboards and petting animals, holding teacups aloft and shielding the eyes to protect from bright sunlight, but mostly they hang strangely from the end of human arms without purpose or form. How many fingers is anyone’s guess; where one hand ends and another begins cannot be determined by the greatest minds in computing. All the hands touching one’s face must be the way to show comfort to another. Perhaps a hand should sprout from an ankle, to better touch the earth’s surface with. And don’t even get AI started on the fingernails; we’ll be here all day trying to figure out the what and where of those, never mind the why…
@Home Studio – 81st poem of the year
Runner ups for the AI hands photos to accompany my poem:
I once caught sunrise in a jar and was tempted to keep it, put it on my bookshelf next to an Asian vase and a picture of a peacock I got off Marketplace. I held that jar, warm as a cup of tea, and felt the hum of life dawning between my palms. Regret at trapping such a being immediately overwhelmed me, and I unscrewed the lid lefty- loosie until nothing hindered egress, yet sunrise remained in the jar as though appreciative of a pause; so, we sat together a little longer, sunrise and me. Though brief, the moment was poignant, and I am ashamed to admit I sometimes wish I had kept the lid screwed on tight.
rebekahjmarshall 