(Poem 274 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Inbound air vehicles
are pulling into the plane
parking lot, unloading people
like children off a school bus
and I’m sitting in the pick-up line,
waiting to scoop
you and your backpack
into the car and whisk
you home where you belong
after a long field trip.
@Home Studio – 274th poem of the year
(Poem 273 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I needed a way
to display
my hair sticks
decoratively,
so I measured
and sketched
a design Grandad
could build
with his hands
and his tools
and his can-do
attitude that turns
ideas into art,
like a barn
or a staircase,
a balance beam
or doll furniture,
or a simple
wooden frame
with olive green yarn
stretched taut
between raised metal tacks
and a shiny gold hook
holding fast at the top
to hang my idea
for all the world to see.
@Home Studio – 273rd poem of the year
(Poem 272 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
The new kitten
has no idea
what big paws
she has to fill,
but if her sass
and spunk
are any indication
of her intentions,
I would say she’s
going to hold her own
quite well in our pack.
@Home Studio – 272nd poem of the year
(Poem 270 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Washing dishes (scrubbing a cookie sheet too hard.)
Rolling over in bed.
Holding up my cell phone to show my daughter a video.
Sitting up straight in my chair.
Bending over to pet Cotton Eyed Joe (my granddaughter’s cat.)
Typing.
Opening a Splenda packet; shaking it too vigorously.
Brushing my teeth.
Scooping a cup of dog food into the dog’s bowl.
Waving my Harry Potter wand.
@Home Studio – 270th poem of the year
(Poem 269 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Plasma is rare
on earth,
though found
in abundance
everywhere else
in space.
And now scientists
are telling us
that these blobs
that are not solid,
liquid, or gas,
but another state:
communicate,
behave predatorially,
congregate,
interact with satellites,
get the zoomies,
race excitedly
toward thunderstorms,
form crystals—
corkscrew shaped
like DNA,
and may be inorganic
non-biological life
or pre-life,
and we’re supposed
to go on sipping our tea
and paying our bills.
@Home Studio – 269th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Plasma photos to accompany my poem:
(Poem 268 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Can agony
awaken possibility?
Is it painful
for the seed
to sprout,
or is the bursting out
more like relief?
Will something fresh
find its way through
the detritus
and despair,
and if so,
how will we know
when we can
hope again?
@Home Studio – 268th poem of the year
(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 266 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Artifact M123ST was found in the ruins
of one of the few habitations to have
survived the cataclysm mostly intact.
It is a six-sided rectangular box. We are
unable to ascertain the container’s true
purpose but feel certain it must have
been used to store items of religious or
spiritual significance, or it has also been
suggested that they were used as protective
casings for one of their most valuable
assets–sand. It is known that sand became
a valuable commodity prior to the cataclysm,
as it was one of the fundamental, critical
components of building materials in their
world. Undecipherable characters appear
to be inscribed in patterns, though the
sample size is too small to determine if
it is representative of language, or merely
decorative scrawling. Of special interest
is the latching mechanism that holds the
lid of the box closed. A small rectangular
indentation can be pressed, releasing the
latch, which permits the lid to spring open.
A satisfying click indicates the lid has been
closed securely when the latch reengages.
We know little of these primitive people who
lived before the cataclysm, but artifacts such
as these offer a glimpse into their lost culture.
@Home Studio – 266th poem of the year
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/Ne1Ypc
(Poem 265 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My man
is in Japan
learning what he can
from teachers who understand
that the world is vast, and dreams are grand
for those who are willing to stretch and expand
both body and spirit by making a personal demand
that pliability and fortitude exist when things unplanned
knock us off center, we discover that we are able to withstand
most of life’s assaults with a calm heart, a quiet mind, and an open hand.
@Home Studio – 265th poem of the year
(Poem 264 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Maybe the way
I wash this knife
with precision,
erasing the past
with friction,
soap, and molecules
is in some little way
the meaning of life.
Maybe scraping
the crusty
remnants of drippage
on countertops
until the rag slides smooth
is its own reward
somehow.
Maybe the fact
that hot
water melts
butter residue
from a dish,
inviting it to slip
effortlessly from its former
state
and find freedom
in movement
is the most real
thing I know,
or think
I know,
or want
to know
because knowing
is somehow solid,
purposeful, sure,
and I suspect
that I know
nothing,
or there is nothing
to know,
or knowing
means nothing,
thus,
washing a knife
is the meaning
of life.
@Home Studio – 264th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Washing Dishes photos to accompany my poem (AI had a hard time with this one):
rebekahjmarshall 