Tag Archives: Writing

Visiting Rome

(Poem 263 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

I’m zipping
through the streets
of Italy
on a motorbike,
past the Colosseum,
looking with my eyes,
not my phone.
Being beside
things built
to last
slows
the pace
of time
to cobblestone
roads
that lead
to fountains
and statues
who’ve seen
many iterations of me
over the last thousand years
gazing back
at them.
Buongiorno,
they cheer across the plaza
to welcome me back again.

@Home Studio – 263rd poem of the year (inspired by an episode of Emily in Paris set in Rome)

Star, Darren, et al. Emily in Paris. “Roman Holiday” Los Angeles, CA, Paramount, 2024.

Mom Dinner

(Poem 262 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

These days, people are always on
about girl dinner and boy dinner,
but what about Mom dinner?
That’s the meal where you get a
spoonful of the stir-fry you are
making to taste what seasonings
are needed, a bite of each veggie
as you chop it, a spoonful of baby
food to show them how yummy
it is, and one chicken nugget that
was left on your child’s plate and
looked forlorn all by its lonesome.
You dip a carrot stick in ketchup
and eat half a string cheese that
was left on the counter by a kid.
The last swig of backwash apple
juice remaining in a sippy cup
might be what you get to drink.
Ask any Mom what a Mom dinner
is and the same haggard face of
recognition will nod in sympathy.

@Home Studio – 262nd poem of the year

Safekeeping

(Poem 261 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/FGMuRf

I am always fascinated
by people unafraid to
share the gruesome
details of their lives
with the rest of us so
we can hold them up
to the light and examine
their every wart and
crack, wrinkle and roll
of fat like specimens.
But the glass jar with
pink paper inside that
made the cover look
warm and inviting was
a trap that forced me
to witness her most
vulnerable moments,
and now I feel sad and
embarrassed for her.

@Home Studio on 9/17/24 @ 7:45pm – 261st poem of the year (After reading Safekeeping-some true stories from a life by Abigail Thomas.)

Thomas, Abigail. Safekeeping -some true stories from a life. Anchor Books, 2001.

Runner ups for the Safekeeping photos to accompany my poem:

How to Hold a Cockroach

(Poem 260 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/W0ZpTf

I know how to hold a cockroach.
That is not the problem. The real
problem is in the willingness to
hold the cockroach because I
don’t want to. I absolutely know
intellectually that the cockroach
will not harm me, and I absolutely
know spiritually that cockroaches
are God’s creatures, too, and I
absolutely know psychologically
that the exercise is good for my
psyche and all that jazz, but I
still don’t want to extend my hand
and allow the cockroach to climb
aboard and scurry all around. I
just got chills up my spine thinking
about it because the story is still
too strong that my mind makes up,
and I’m just not ready to let it go.

@Home Studio – 260th poem of the year (After reading How to Hold a Cockroach by Matthew Maxwell.)

Maxwell, Matthew. Illustrations by Allie Daigle. How to Hold a Cockroach – A book for those who are free and don’t know it, Hearthstone, 2020.

Runner ups for the Cockroach photos to accompany my poem:

In the Air

(Poem 259 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

My husband is in the air
as I write this. His body is
literally catapulting through
the sky at over 500 miles per
hour and we are all supposed
to act like that is a perfectly
normal thing for a human to
do on a random Sunday night.
I guess it is actually a Monday
afternoon in Japan because
he’s going so fast he’s skipping
most of a day into the future.
Is anything real on this strange
sphere we call home that spins
at 1,000 miles per hour while
circling the sun at 67,000 miles
per hour in our solar system
that is zipping 450,000 miles
per hour around the Milky Way?

@Home Studio – 259th poem of the year

A Beck 50

(Poem 258 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

(Photo from my Family Ladies Lunch for my 51st Birthday. This is the last photo I have of myself as a 50-year-old.)

My husband reminded me today that
it was my last day to be a Beck 50, and
I scolded him for coming up with such
a great line on the last day of my 50th year.
Why couldn’t he have thought of it sooner,
so I could have been using it all year long?
He only thought of it after remembering
that his cousin Cynthia was 50 Cent for
her 50th year of life, and I am disappointed
to have missed the opportunity to use
the pun because am the sort who would
have used and abused that moniker.

@Home Studio – 258th poem of the year

Friday the 13th

(Poem 257 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/05ijyi

My grandmother Mema’s father’s
father Grandpa Carroll was an extremely
superstitious man who came down
hard on anyone who walked under a
ladder or spilled salt without throwing
some over the shoulder or broke a
mirror without taking proper precautions.
Mema did not remember what the proper
precautions were, as she was a small
child when she got harshly scolded for
spinning a chair on one leg in the dining
room, and her father had to come to
her defense, reprimanding his own
father for spouting such nonsense.
He hated black cats, unlucky numbers,
stepping on cracks, the opening of
umbrellas in the house, speaking of
the dead, and she thinks he told her
about the need to keep an axe under
the bed when a woman is in labor
to protect her from evil spirits about.
She found his stories both horrifying
and confusing, since her parents
countered that they were not true.
As she grew, her only superstition
became the spells of prayer she
uttered without ceasing to protect
her loved ones, which I know saved
us all on a number of occasions.

@Home Studio – 257th poem of the year

September 11th

***Trigger Warning/Content Warning – graphic violence, suicide, death, dying, world tragedies

(Poem 256 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

I was exercising on an
elliptical machine at the
local YMCA and watching
the television off and on.
Some new movie was
advertising, that I would
never see, where buildings
blow up and planes crash
and there is not enough
dialogue to satisfy me.
The longer the images
flashed on the screen,
the more real the footage
took shape as something
awful, a thing less from
Hollywood, and more
from a living nightmare.
New York, Twin Towers,
a second plane, a third
plane hit the Pentagon,
a fourth plane was headed
for the capital but went down
in a field in Pennsylvania.
The world was coming
apart at the seams, and I
had to get home to my
children to hold them.
When what looked like
debris, but turned out to
be people, began falling
from the windows, my
beliefs forever changed.
To hear people judge and
decry the actions of so
many facing certain death,
my heart leapt with those
who grasped what little
personal choice they had
left in their final moments,
and I wept as one by one,
some holding hands together,
they made the plunge to
the beyond like rockets
shooting to space in reverse.

Several images are seared into my brain. One is the image of the Falling Man, taken by Associated Press photographer Richard Drew, which looks as though the man has thrown himself as a spear at the earth, defiantly facing death on his own terms. “The picture went all around the world, and then disappeared, as if we willed it away. One of the most famous photographs in human history became an unmarked grave, and the man buried inside its frame—the Falling Man—became the Unknown Soldier in a war whose end we have not yet seen.” – by Tom Junod

@Home Studio – 256th poem of the year

Junod, Tom, “The Falling Man – An unforgettable story.” Esquire, 9 Sep. 2021, http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/a48031/the-falling-man-tom-junod/

Skinny Liver

(Poem 255 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

The ultrasound test today
was unpleasant and long,
as the technician dug into
my rib cage to search for
my liver, pancreas, spleen,
kidneys, and gallbladder,
along with some arteries.
Apparently, they were hard
to find due to my habitus,
which is a medical way to
point out just how fat I am.
Fatty infiltration, adipose
fat, and overlying bowel gas
are just more ways of saying
I’m too fat and full of hot air.
Ef’ you and yo’ mama with
your skinny little perfect livers.

@Home Studio – 255th poem of the year

Painted Skin

(Poem 254 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/GQuc0J

Jenni married an Indian man,
painted her white skin brown,
and adopted a Hindi accent.
She wore a simple cotton sari
as though it was a ball gown
and dispensed sage advice
with smooth tilts of the head,
as though born in Mumbai.

@Home Studio – 254th poem of the year (After a dream I had about a white friend of mine completely appropriating Indian culture.)

Runner ups for the Indian Jenni photos to accompany my poem: