(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 70 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
(Inspired by the poetry of a TikToker – @YungStreetPoet)
He’s a cool cat, writes poetry that
plays smooth like music on old vinyl.
Might as well be sitting at an upright,
a little out of tune, one paw on the ivories,
the other swirling a bourbon in a smoky bar.
Others, upon seeing his handsome mug
will say things like, would you look
what the cat dragged in? and Daddy O.
He’ll say he polished his leathers and
left his pad for the sole purpose of
finding some jazzing, you dig?
@Home Studio – 70th poem of the year
Runner ups for the cool cat photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 69 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Good morning leaves decaying in layers in our little yard forest. You have carpeted the ground beautifully with your life donation. Each of your sacrifices is appreciated, honored, and revered by many paws padding over your graves. Good morning birds singing to the gallery of the gods. You cheer the space where silence was lonely and fill the trees with invisible color. Good morning cool breeze gently swaying the boughs. Waving, nodding, welcoming all of us to your open-air cathedral, we are in awe of your generosity. Good morning ghost white sky. I suppose you don’t feel cornflower blue right now, and that is okay. You are lovely just as you are and have every right to express yourself however you like. Good morning big red barn with peeling paint. Your strength and shelter have protected many generations. You have been a foundation upon which lives were built. Good morning wood pile. What a lovely stack you’ve made of yourself, artistically skewed like an artisanal centerpiece for the yard.
@Home Studio – 69th poem of the year
(Poem 68 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Crimes against the most
vulnerable in society
often go unreported,
unsolved, left in the dark
where they were committed.
Shows about the people
who work tirelessly to
defend the weak and
catch the perpetrators
of evil provide comfort.
Each episode should probably
elicit fear, shed light on
terrors I never even thought
of before, keep me up at night,
but instead, something about
the procedural repetition of
violence, discovery,
investigation, interrogation,
Stabler wrestles with demons,
Benson saves the day,
the criminal goes to jail,
and I can fall right to sleep.
@Home Studio – 68th poem of the year
(Poem 67 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Crashing kaleidoscope
of geode shards
splinter my heart
like a rain of grief
when the shelves
collapse into a heap.
@Home Studio – 67th poem of the year
(Poem 66 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Is it wicked to want love?
Some think so.
Perhaps they have never
known the power
that comes from hearts
that beat in
unison and lives that are
fated to be
intertwined like woven cords.
Is it wicked to demand respect?
Some say so.
Perhaps they have never
known the freedom
that comes from minds
open to truth
revealed by struggle and growth
after the fight
has been won and admiration earned.
Is it wicked to expect equality?
Some believe so.
Perhaps they have never
known the joy
that comes from souls
fired by flames
of cosmic boldness who know
the real story
is so much better than the lies.
@Home Studio after seeing Wicked on stage at Bass Concert Hall in Austin, Texas 3/16/24 (a Christmas give from my husband from this year) – 66th poem of the year
Wicked. Stephen Schwartz and Winnie Holzman, 2003, Bass Concert Hall, Austin, TX, 16 March, 2024.(Poem 65 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Life is hard for protectors
who must bark endlessly to
deter potential enemies.
Anything could be a threat-
that leaf fluttering menacingly
toward the fence line,
the plane flying over head,
even the car passing on the
street that can’t be seen,
only heard and understood
to pose a danger to all.
It is only right that well-earned
naps take place at regular
intervals throughout the day.
How else will they manage
to continue their missions,
patrol every inch of property,
smell every conceivable
danger before it could
possibly occur, and protect
the peace with dignity?
The cat just likes to nap for
no good reason; she has not
honorably earned her sleep,
nor has she contributed in
any way to the security of
her family beyond gazing
disinterestedly at the hard
workers as they tirelessly
performed their duties.
It is a thankless job with
only contentment as reward.
@Home Studio – 65th poem of the year
(Poem 64 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Stacks of books piled delicately-
solid slices of other worlds
I’ve yet to visit.
How do pieces of paper pressed-
ink printed in neat rows
bring such joy?
@Home Studio – 64th poem of the year
(Poem 63 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
There’s a tempest in my teacup
that I don’t know how to quell
despite attempts to cool the storm
and break the awful spell.
Sometimes I simply tarry awhile,
take time to make some toast;
eventually things settle down-
no more than an hour at most.
Believe me, I wish I knew a way
to keep things calm and still,
but once my tea begins to roar
no one can oppose its will.
Perhaps someday my tea will learn
to behave like a proper cup,
but until then I’ll gently stir,
wait for peace and drink up.
@Home Studio – 63rd poem of the year
(Poem 62 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
There’s a pretty little garden
in a pretty little town
where a pretty little girl
puts balloon seeds in the ground.
She waits very patiently
sitting between the rows
and waters them one by one
waiting for them to grow.
When the bulbous little globes
begin to rise and swell
she sings to each and every one
in a voice clear as a bell.
Once they’ve reached maturity
the little girl waves her goodbyes
as she watches them float away
with tears in her eyes.
@Home Studio – 62nd poem of the year
Runner ups for the balloon garden photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 