Ferns Rise From Ashes (2019 Poem 7)
Ferns rise from ashes of a different time
Hard lessons here for those who saw
Oaks bear witness to those who suffered
Solace in the afterlife their due
Autumn leaves wept
Hour 10
And the slew of disappointing short form fob-off poems continues.
But I’m still taking part and I’m enjoying my private life at the same time, so that’s all that matters.
Finger and toe tips
Pleasures crawling over skin
Make me yours again
April
April
Crack of the bat
Smell of the glove
Feel the scarlet stitching
Brown stained white sphere
Handed the mask
And the gear
Behind the plate
Can never show fear
Running drills
Day after day
Constantly dirty baseball cleats
Never will forget that baseball year
Hour 9, Prompt 11 – Mark Twain
There was a young man named Mark Twain
He whitewashed a fence on the plain
He found it great fun
To be in the hot sun
For reasons I cannot explain
March
“Happy birthday to you…”
Sung by friends and family
Smiling awkwardly
Sitting there and waiting
Watching as the flame eats more and more of his wax meal
“Happy birthday to you..”
11 going on to 12
One last year of being a kid
Before the teenage years
Then adulthood
“Happy birthday dear…”
Contemplating the birthday wish
A bike, video game, or a new book
My last birthday wish
As a child
“Happy birthday to you!”
The singing is over
Here comes the moment
Close my eyes and make a silent wish
Wish for a happy life
Guess I am actually
Growing up..
(Hour 09) 06.30-07.30am. PROMPT, book title (+ extras)
As luck would have it.
The atlas of us.
Our souls at night.
One of us is lying.
Look into my eyes.
A thousand pieces of you.
You are not so smart.
Those who leave & those who stay.
Everything you need.
When you reach me.
We are called to rise.
All I ever wanted.
If I forget you.
The reason I jump.
I hope they serve beer in hell.
Just to spice things up, I played a couple of wee little games here.
ALL these are book titles on my shelves ATM.
ALL have a pronoun in the title (except ironically, the title).
& cos I didn’t quite nail the sevenling in the prompt before — this is a FOURTEENLING (or double sevenling hahahaha)
Damn
The lone moonbeam finds its way
Through the high fog,
Masking the tops of the firs
Lining the shoreline past the dock.
We wade together, not silent, but with hushed tones.
I with my coffee and you, your canteen.
Water lapping the concrete
Invading my thoughts
As we unknowingly step off the shelf
Into the abyss.
The Lunar Laments!
In a moonbeam night,
smelling old books on my shelf,
I want to feel a soothing coffee.
From there I will rise,
move like a lazy beauty,
piercing the fog.
And I will climb the fir,
I’ll sing loud the canteen songs,
which I sang once with my dearest ones!
Damn!these dreams are very,very short to live!
Forgiveness Sheets
When I am happiest,
I speak of forgiveness.
I speak of books
and worksheets and practices
to get you there.
I speak of letting go
and of laughing (at yourself,
mostly). When I am happiest,
I remember being asked
“What do you want most?”
I think of likely answers—
wealth, luck, immortality,
love. I answered that I didn’t
always want to be happy.
I want to be at peace.
Wish You Were Here
I come home, the house dark and still.
I eat my dinner and watch the news, wishing to discuss this crazy world.
I read in bed, my cold feet wanting the warmth of yours.
I turn out the light and say goodnight to you aloud, missing your endearments.
I lay on my side of the bed, wanting the comforting pressure of your back against mine.
I wake from a dream, in tears, calling out your name.
Wish you were here.*
*Based on the title of the book by Stewart O’Nan
Eve Remillard
6/22/19