24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hungry
Yearning for pasta now
Tummy bellows like a cow
Pesto and Pasta will have to wait
My muse and I have a date
Wordsmith and Wisdom growing thin
Ignore that longing if I want to win
Mrs Meyer,
You are so smart!
Basil, Be still my heart!
Alas, from this sink I must depart.
Crisp and clean, it met my nose
Soon spongy bubbles from it arose
Bright, cheerful scented ones
Tickling dishes by the tons.
Along the east-side where the fae may roam
outside my bedroom window is where the latest have grown
shrooms have sprouted
where faerie
feet have stepped
today a four leaf clover
with a couple daisies in my midst
if not for the prompt,
they may have been missed
vast varieties of shapes and colors
they’ve always catch my glimpse
Amanda Potter©: 2019 Poetry Marathon
A Walk
Nasturtium creeping in the hedge
Blackberry flowers promising fruit
Ivy, green and waxy tangles
I smell the water and the blue eucalyptus
I note the speed of swallows
Sap shining in the sun
Bougainvillea and wild rose falling
Hop-scotch and foxglove inviting
Great bee with glass wings, warming
If this was all there was
Would I be happy all the time?
Standing on the edge
Looking over…
Where whispery breezes
Caress my hair
And warm honeydew
~Smells Sensuous~
Closing my eyes…
…Being stroked and held
I leaned into your embrace~~~
Only to find myself
falllllllinnng…
My intuition
Couldn’t catch me this time.
Blood pooling
By the chilled marble slab
That is Me…
slashed
By the scattered
fragments
Of
My
dreams
Grief is like springtime in Nebraska:
You wake up to enjoy a sunny day at the lake.
The water, sky, and crisp air
Blow kisses
Inviting you
To breathe again.
The stark gray winter has passed.
The next moment, you’re seeking shelter in a bathtub
While tornado sirens wail.
When I say she preferred to eat ash,
it’s not black and white.
She filled up on radish and cabbage ash.
Her body craved ash of bone and fat.
She caught cotton candy ash floating
in the air like snowflakes on her tongue.
She withered and grew. Days fluttered
and were consumed, unidentifiable
from each other— ash on the heap.
She slept like a burned log. Delicate.
Warm. When she slept.
She no longer feared the day
she would break in two— as only someone
made of ash could do.
As I watched my children sitting underneath the umbrella
I wanted to take a picture
As thoughts of them being covered came to me
Thoughts of they are covered when I am not there
Because I have failed to cover them when I was there
Sending up blessings, smells, incense, thoughts, prayers, blood, emotions, feelings, vibrational healing, protectiveness
Cover them
Florida water, stones and crystals, my intentions, my actions, my Accountability and Responsibility
Cover them Ancestors, Mama Universe, Mother Earth, Mother Nature, Father God, Jesus
Cause even though I no longer believe or better yet agree, like I once did
My husband still does
And our children deserve that covering of
What we know
To be with them throughout their life
So they can live
And so they can fulfill their mission, their duty in this life
Whatever it might be
And wherever it may lead
They’ll be good, great, fantastic, excellent, wonderful fine
No matter what
In the end
Because they are covered
Because of The Covering
That is on, over, below, out, and inside of them
Copyright © 2019 by Angelica Stevenson
All Rights Reserved
So much energy in nature!
Incredible how a walk can inspire me!
It seems that I follow my thoughts
And not my steps. Sheer joy!
During my strolls I am not, but
I become a time traveller who
listens to the wind wispering,
who loves sun’s smile and light.
I do not follow the path,
but my heart and my mind.
I never get tired of a good walk
and I still feel the breeze when I get inside.
From the air the rift is obvious.
Cascades, Sierra Nevadas —
I see how the Earth folded herself,
intimate and generous
into the shift and spread.
Between us, the space is not so clear.
I have bent, turned, given in, broken down
and hidden
but the quakes, the insults,
the mean stares and rivers of anger —
where does this plain and transparent
continent of me
drift to?
J. Pratt-Walter
6/22/2019
The thousandth, drawn out, pleading “Daddy” of the day
Grates like corroded metal on raw patience.
A long breath hisses inward between teeth clenched without volition
Look up, let the breath hiss back out, tuck the aggravation away.
Two more “Daddy”s have passed, whining, in the composure time
Demanded by the thousandth.
Yes, hon. I turn away from the work that feeds and houses us to ask. What is it?
“How do I make a table?” She replies, waving a tablet under my nose
A resilient sleeve of brilliant plastics making the experience immeasurably pinker.
I ask, resigned, what kind of table she needs.
A crafting table? To bend the blocky materials of her world to her will?
An enchanting table? To twist the magics of that bind all life in ways clever and profane?
An alchemy table? To brew elixirs of power and danger unguessed at outside of imagination and helpful wikis?
“No daddy, a table like the villagers have.”
A what? I inquire, befuddled by the purpose and construction of this apparent necessity.
“Look!” She turns her tablet and shows me the treasure her tiny heart desires.
Ah. A fence post with a slab on it. I see.
I explain as much, and a smile splits her gap-toothed face.
With a voice like heaven’s wind chimes she says “Thank you, Daddy!”
And one-thousand-and-four makes all the ones before more than worthwhile.
I return to work with a smile
as she plunges once more into the realm of blocks and creepers.
I settle into a pace, reminded of why I do it in the first place.
And then the air splits with a shout: “DAAADDY!”
“HOW DO YOU SPELL ‘FENCE’?”