A PSA for Our Daughters – Hour 3

Little girls, you are told

YOU SHOULDN’T BE ALONE

(You’re too small!)

The Girl becomes a Woman who becomes a Wife…

The indoctrination of need begins your life.

 

Young women, you are told

YOU SHOULDN’T BE ALONE

(You’re too needy!)

The Girl becomes a Woman who becomes a Wife who becomes a Mother…

Young lady, this will be your life.

 

Older women, you are told

YOU SHOULDN’T BE ALONE

(You’re too frail!)

The Girl becomes a Woman who becomes a Wife who becomes a Mother who becomes a Grandmother…

M’am, this was your life.

 

What if we change that narrative

And the daughters of this world are told

YOU ARE ALL YOU NEED

(You’re enough!)

The Girl becomes a Woman who becomes…

You define your own life.

The Windowsill

Prompts Hour Three

I cut spring flowers;

poppies, iris, and peonies,

for the windowsill.

 

Next, I pick;

geraniums and summer roses,

for the windowsill.

For the autumn;

 Chrysanthemums and sunflowers, for the windowsill. 

Snowy memories:

bloom and dance,

outside my windowsill.

 

 

 

 

Posted on June 26, 2021 11:00am EDT by The Poetry Marathon

You scum

You, the pinkest of water lilies to be plucked. Me, the pond scum that gets tracked home on worn shoes whose soles have cracked apart and left to rot in a corner of a dark and damp garage.
Life’s not fair.

Hour Three 2021

I woke up early in a daze, 
my head still ringing Purple Haze.

I woke up early in a daze, 
my head still ringing Purple Haze.

I woke up early in a daze, 
my head still ringing Purple Haze.

I think it's time for better days.

The sun is up—been up an hour—
in the sink an empty growler.

The sun is up—been up an hour—
in the sink an empty growler.

The sun is up—been up an hour—
in the sink an empty growler.

It's time to climb this watchtower.

A Damp Saturday Morning

grey sky shines
humid air
seeping through the skin
gentle on the body

this day demands rest
even the birds are few
above the cityscape
seeking sustenance
and leisure
as the earth offers
its bounties
to all
who take this moment
in stillness

(Poem 3 of Half-Marathon)

Hop Along

Two faced, backstabber,

hop along, lady.

Speak your language and laugh

for you will be sorry in the future.

You think it’s all safe and you are saving your kind,

but instead you indoctrinate hate.

I hear your double-edged sword words

that mean nothing to most of your constituents.

They are innocent and will suffer the most

when the world falls into decay.

So speak your language and laugh

for you will be sorry in the future

when there are incompetent people

aiding you in the hospitals

and filing your estate taxes

and stealing your money.

So speak your language and laugh

for you will be sorry in the future.

Prompt Three (pulling threads from one and two)

tomorrow

sheets of azure, an open canvas
writing my words on the wind
watching them waft towards new worlds –
standing on the cusp of myself

swells of liquid teal, swimming the depths
of imagination – reeds of metaphor
swaying like seaweed beds of simile –
standing on the cusp of myself

forest paths – taken and… not; nuanced needles
of cedar, pine, juniper and yew; fronds of fiddleheads
curled like foundling letters on the page –
standing on the cusp of myself

writing a different story for the days to come:
the kite set free, its string bobbing along the surface
of the sea, finding refuge in an auspicious bower –
on the cusp of myself, standing tall

Repetition Prompt (Hour 3)

Family gathers around tables in front of the farmhouse.
After a year of sheltering, 
retreating from contagious threats,
A world reopens to fill the vacancy of time lost.

At the center of the yard, 
a mighty pin oak weeps from a severed branch,
secretions stain the trunk, 
spilling over its own roots, 
lost in the dirt.
I place too much importance on what I feel.
 
The fields are overgrown, 
waving in shallow winds,
voluntary trees sprout up from the ocean of wild grass.
Low hanging limbs reach down, 
swaying just above drifting seedheads.
Some liminal space hides in between the touching forestry.
I place too much importance on what I feel.

Missing family members who departed long ago or recently,
to travel upon those talking winds, 
carried over these fields at the end of day.
Their presence is remembered, 
felt missing, I am reminded of their absence.
The trees mourn in unspoken throws, 
the wind widens the vacancy with invisible fingers.
I place too much importance on what I feel.

Perhaps all of this is merely time passing, 
an awareness that everything is falling away.
Significance doesn't exist beyond the contemplations of my heart,
there is no real resonance in nature, 
no imprinted mysteries, 
or ancestors whispering in the woods.

Just the sorrows of gradually fading, 
surrendering to closing circles,
with bowed heads, 
silent in the essence of our surroundings,
and me placing importance on what I feel.

The Bird Watchers’ Eyes

POEM 03

Oh those poor stalked birds! Oh those poor stalked birds! Oh those poor stalked birds!

How they must suppose at camera lens and googly eyed binoculars trained on their every flight; magnifying or snapping up their sweet feathered sight.

High and low, invading their privacy, tracing their nests and perches for game or sport or fancy pastime.

Starlings fly in murmurated protest. Small Sparrows regret their pry. A thrush cocks his little brown head at a woman in bright pink. “Interesting feathers” he likely

thinks. Her great round eyes do look odd following, following his every flap or blink or nod.

Oh those tragic winged creatures, trying to elude the bird watchers hunt!

Invisible (Hour 3)

She observes from afar.

She slowly stalks her prey, friends,

an endangered species in this concrete jungle.

Oblivious to her, they stare into their palms.

Walking blindly, navigating obstacles, bridges, stairs.

Capturing themselves, yet missing those around them.

Connected in their disconnect, they do not see her approach.

That is when she pounces — smiles and opens doors.

Hoping to be seen.