(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 221 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Puberty ushers in such
comrades as Anxiety,
Envy, Embarrassment,
and my favorite, Ennui.
The panic that ensues
when Embarrassment
threatens and Envy
rears her unsettled self,
resurrects Fear and
Disgust, Anger and
Sadness, leading to
complete paralysis.
The only protection
against it all is to feign
Ennui…nothing matters
because too much
enthusiasm might be
the wrong amount, and
no one would dare be
too happy in a room
full of teens trying to
fake unruffled chill.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio on 8/19/24 @ 10:17am – 221st poem of the year (After watching Inside Out 2 with my granddaughter in theatre.)
Mann, Kelsey. Inside Out 2. Amy Poehler, Pixar Animation Studios, 14 June 2024.
(Poem 119 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My anger used to be the
kind that exploded like an
overheated pressure cooker.
I think it’s because I used
to care; it hurt to feel like
a last resort afterthought.
Now my anger is the kind
that pools in a dirty puddle
and breeds mosquitos.
I think that’s because my
will to care has turned
stagnate, a film formed on
the surface like old milk.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio on 4/29/24 @ 9:39pm – 119th poem of the year
(Poem 58 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
“This is hard,” you say,
and point to her portrait,
no more words required.
Tears begin to flow;
you don’t want to cry
and say so.
I tell you no one knows
what you are feeling.
None of us have had a
best friend for 70 years
and had to feel the pain
of losing her.
Then I escape to my
room to weep into
my husband’s arms,
crying even harder
because she can’t
hold you.
@Home Studio – 58th 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
rebekahjmarshall 