24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
When I was in fourth grade, I won a classroom essay contest. The prize was a pencil case. Since that day, writing has been a hobby, a career, and a passion. I spent most of my professional life as a journalist, newspaper columnist, and public relations specialist. In my semi-retirement years, I find joy in writing and teaching poetry.
An ideal day
I am not alone.
Comfortable companionship.
Low key.
Unstructured.
I laugh.
A lot.
My eyes water.
I cry.
A little.
Tears because I am touched.
Not because I am sad.
Everything fits.
Shoes.
Clothes.
Emotions.
Weather so gentle
that it stays in the background.
Unnoticed.
The day is endless.
No darkness.
No aging.
No death.
The carver
I didn’t agree.
Carving a tree seemed heartless to me.
But you had gone into he-man mode.
Your face was stony while you carved.
Focused.
Relentless.
For all that, we have a small heart
out of place on a somber tree.
I might have said no.
But I didn’t.
You might have understood me.
But you didn’t.
That heart is not a tribute.
It’s a scar.
To my grandmothers
I wish that the afterlife allowed for letters.
Why not let some document float to earth,
ethereal and mysterious,
but newsy.
News from two women who died too young.
News from the grandmothers I never met.
You could fill a page with memories for me:
how you did laundry
and cooked meals
and fell in love.
You could tell me about you.
Did you sing off-key?
Did you read books by candlelight?
Did you love lilacs and spring rains?
Write about what made you happy
and what made you sad.
Most important, let me know if you can see me.
Did you know when I was born?
Did you know that I was born?
Send me a hug or
at least put XOXO on the letter
and sign it
Love, Grandma
Bopping with Don Quixote
I believe that Don Quixote is a worthy hero —
rescuing maidens,
tilting at windmills,
inhaling misguided adventures,
thinking he can save the world,
dreaming the impossible dream.
Quixote has planted a thorn in my heart,
a naive desire to reach the unreachable.
Reaching for the unreachable
leaves one always swallowing failure.
Arms get tired; they ache
from carrying a heavy lance.
The heart gets heavy, too.
The foe is unbeatable,
the sorrow unbearable.
The quest never ends.
Quixote has planted a thorn in my heart,
a naive desire to reach the unreachable.
But Quixote never claimed victory.
He only sought to be true to the quest,
to make the world a better place.
I am like Don Quixote, chasing windmills
without expectation of success.
Satisfied merely to try.
Quixote has planted a thorn in my heart,
a naive desire to reach the unreachable.
Recipe for Navigating Old Age
Ingredients:
Directions:
Keep ingredient number one on hand at all times. May be fresh or frozen.
Fold in ingredients 2 through 4. Sarcasm will lighten the mix. Sorrow is necessary but should not be allowed to sit. Sprinkle joy throughout the batter.
For best results, add one sunrise per day as long as humanly possible.
For Susan B. Anthony
Petticoats fluttered, I suppose
on those endless rides across the prairie.
Your heart may have fluttered, too,
as you braced to speak out.
So much of that ride was uphill
through cold landscapes.
Still, the landscape softened;
hills flattened; fences dropped.
Your travels and speeches
left a permanent trail.
We follow your path today —
speaking out with fluttering hearts
on every uphill ride.
I am looking forward to my second Half Marathon this Saturday. I enjoy writing poetry and also reading what others have written. What an inspirational event!