Shunning Shower
Water drops keep falling
From the shower head
Stinging my skin
As i wash away
My daily sins
Floral scented suds
Mirrors steam over
Hiding the tears I cry, as
Water drops keep falling
From the shower head
Shampoo
my arms used to get tired
straining up to wash my hair
but as I grew up
my arms got stronger
learned how to massage and scrub
lengthy golden locks
long hair was itchy
hot and frizzy and tangled
and a good cause was asking
just shave it all off
my first shower after
I reached up to undo a ponytail
and (not) to my surprise found
fuzzy bald head
buzzed hair meant more washing
but simple daily do’s
it grew out eventually
long curls again, but
I was to hold a Dig Pink
I visited a trusted friend
she was all too happy to give me
neon pink hair
the pink was amazing
but tinted white shirts
and no matter how i washed
always ran in the shower
it faded a bit, but refused to leave
so it got a short summer chop
leaving behind only
little blond bob
my bob has grown out
it tickles, tangles again
ends still too-light blond
from failing to dye out the pink
with natural blond, about halfway down
I ponder as I rinse out the bubbles
what comes next?
H13: Herding Cats
1
2
3
4
Move along, little dowgies,
Er, uh, kitties
Move along more.
Feed and water,
Scoop, scoop, scoop.
Lint Roller roundup
For the whole troupe.
Two fetch, one rolls over,
Especially for treats.
And one eats bones
that a dog likes to eat!
Peekaboo, Junebug, Gomez, and Daisy
Laying around, just being lazy,
Until one wants to play
And the others go crazy!
And one that’s in love with a glass garden bunny.
We watch her snuggle and think that it’s funny…
It’s cheaper than counseling—cat shrinks cost money!
And then there’s the one that uses the can…
Yes, he sits there—at least that’s the plan
But we can’t get him to flush—just like a man!
Then as twilight fades and the stars all light,
We each have a snack and turn in for the night.
And four little furries cuddle me tight.
Stranger
Stranger
The man with a strange mask
Carries firefly caged in a bottle
Set out for a difficult task
To heat the porridge
For the uninvited guest
Staying in the invisible cottage
Hour 9
@varenyas
Reverence
Reverence
in the silence between butterfly wings
between hummingbird heartbeats
between us, there is the space of prayer
find it in a grain as small as a mustard seed
in a trust large as the firmament
in a sacrosanct place for contemplation
be a witness to miracles of water and wine
be the reason for blessings bestowed on the needy
the giver of alms, receiver of indulgences
to pursue a life of sanctifying grace
to bring righteous to all your actions
to embrace faith when all the world is doubting
find peace in devotional scripture
in the stillness of pond water at twilight
in the epicenter of your soul
bring a resurrection of divine traditions
a heart able to follow God’s will
bring gratitude and fortitude to all you meet
to begin, to end
a sacred word
Amen.
~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 13
Hour 12 — Signs at the Panama Hotel
Beth A. Fleisher
Hour 12
Prompt: Take a book off the shelf… First line: Old Henry Lee stood transfixed by all the commotion at the Panama Hotel.
Signs at the Panama Hotel
The Panama Hotel was old.
The guidebooks said historic, and that’s true.
But old is true, too, exterior
in need of paint, interior needing carpet,
like an elderly woman who needs a new dress.
I told my Seattle friend Henry Lee
about my grandparents owning a shop
in Chinatown when they were young.
I wanted to stay nearby and walk around
the neighborhood, see their old shop.
He said the Panama Hotel was just the place,
barely a stone’s throw away from Chinatown.
By all accounts, it was still a favorite place
to stay, close to Pike’s Place Market,
where you can buy pretty much anything.
So, I had booked a room for one, sight unseen,
and here I was, in my room, which was clean
and tidy and included a small refrigerator,
microwave, hair dryer, iron, and a sink —
but no en suite bathroom.
I stared transfixed at the plush, spa-like bathrobe
hanging in the closet. And the sign beside it:
Please enjoy this robe when you use the bathroom
in the hallway. Separate men’s and ladies facilities.
I stood there and read the sign again.
Well, I shrugged, at least there are separate
men’s and ladies’ facilities. In my mind, I made
the words sound very proper and British.
Out in the hallway, I was just reaching for
the door to the ladies’ room when a man bolted past me.
Close behind him was a little, old lady waving her cane
like a Jedi light saber, yelling “Pervert,” and a younger woman
who was trying to stop her. A crowd had gathered,
everyone talking at once. It was quite a commotion.
Apparently, the poor fellow hadn’t read either sign.
Hour 13
Sometimes we think
We’re pulling weeds
When really we’re digging up
The flowers we forgot to water
~take a closer look
Another galaxy, another time. Long live the Alliance. 1/2 marathon poem #12
Another galaxy, another time. Long live the Alliance.
1/2 marathon poem #12
In another galaxy
We’d be rebels
In another time
We’d all revolt
In another place
We’d carry lightsabers
In another time
We’d fight for truth
But for now together
We’ll do it with words
Never in silence
Long live the Alliance!
(C) Scott Coe 2020
Scratch My Head, Sigh (Hour 13)
Scratch my head, sigh,
touch my lips, shift weight to the other hip.
Fingers rest upon the keyboard
waiting for a thought to direct them.
Eyes staring at the glossy black keys,
the desk lamp light refracted, outshining the fading,
white depiction of each letter.
My mind wanders,
vision blurs at the edges,
What is worth writing down?
Sigh, breath in and out,
details of an idea, perused, again,
folded over, scanned, magnified,
strung up on corkboard
interconnected with a web of lines,
hinting, searching,
How to say what hasn’t been said
about what hasn’t been seen?
The colors, the shapes, the symbols
that play behind compartments of what I know.
The parallels I rely on, the juxtapositions I distort,
all trying to speak something,
hinting that there are answers in the universe.
I use to think I would find answers,
but the longer I live the less I believe there are any.
Scratch my head, sigh, touch my lips, shift weight to the other hip.
hour 12. 8:10 PM.
It is autumn.
It is cold.
It is 48 degrees Fahrenheit outside,
paired with winds of 12 miles per hour.
We are outside.
I don’t know why.
You wanted to take a walk.
I wanted to cuddle,
maybe sleep.
But I gave in, and you
dragged me out into a
canvas of soft deaths.
I like autumn;
I wear my beloved trench coat.
You don’t like autumn;
You say it is too cold for you.
Right now, you are wearing
one of your thick parka jackets.
An evergreen one.
It is a stark contrast to the carotenoid shades
of the dying leaves that drift past your shoulders.
The leaves die whispering, and
The wind brings the words to our ears.
The leaves do not lie.
I hope we will be evergreen, too,
but it might be too cold.
I know it is cold, and that
I should keep moving, but
I have stopped walking,
just for a moment, just to
quietly appreciate how attractive you are.
All mine.
I take a picture of you,
kicking at the leaves by the curb.
Autumn is a time to respect the dead.
The living breathe, but dead leaves don’t.
Does temperature affect breathing?
I think 48 degrees Fahrenheit is too low.
The 11th Edition of Campbell Biology says
it reduces enzyme activity in cells.
It takes some time, but
I finally think of something to say.
“I can’t be-leaf I got myself someone so hot.”
Your face flushes, turning a light crimson.
I feel myself smile.
My heart softens.
My chest feels a bit warmer.
We are surrounded by warmth.
Dead leaves hold warmth in their colors.
The leaves continue to fall.
Dead bodies are not warm.
You pull me along;
We continue walking.
It is silent for some time
until you speak.
“Is your name Autumn?”
You toss a leaf at me.
“Because I think I’m falling for you.”
Your boyish grin appears as I laugh.
Then, you laugh.
Then, I continue to laugh.
It is really 48 degrees outside?
Your presence makes me feel warm.
We continue to walk.
The world continues to turn.
The sun pours its golden hour upon us.
The colors around us shine just slightly brighter.
The leaves are dying in pianissimo.
Their murmurs don’t go unnoticed,
We just choose not to listen.
The leaves continue to fall—
one settles in your green hood.
It is cold, but I am enjoying the walk.
You make more puns and horrible jokes.
I keep my hands in the pockets
of my trench coat. You do the same,
with your own parka,
but your left hand somehow slips
its way into my right pocket,
and weaves its way
in between my fingers,
drawing me out of my shelter.
I do not mind.
It is cold, but with you here,
48 degrees Fahrenheit
and winds of 12 miles per hour
feels a bit like summer and home to me.
The leaves are falling
between our silence,
filling up our world
with the beauty of death.
After all, nothing gold can stay.
I wear my trench coat.
I hold your hand.
I lose myself in the moment.
I cannot bear the thought of not having us.
I listen to the murmurs of the dying leaves.
I wonder if they tell half-truths.
Are half-truths better than whole-lies?
It is autumn again, and it is cold.
I wear my trench coat.
I take a walk.
I lose myself in the moment.
I think the same thoughts.
I wonder if nostalgia is a good thing.
I think the leaves are trying to give me advice.
They say there will be nothing to fear when a heart turns to gold.
How does one tell them that nothing gold can stay?
How does one tell them that only the gods have ichor in their veins?
How do I tell them that I still bleed red?
They must have been telling half-truths.
Autumn this year
feels much colder than it was last year.
I think it was warmer when you were around.
I think it was warmer because you were around.
I think I miss you and your warmth.
I guess you can finally say that our love is six feet under.
I wonder if that is the reason why
48 degrees Fahrenheit
and winds of 12 miles per hour
feels more like winter this year.