hour two
little pink nose,
bright green eyes,
long, soft whiskers
touch my face…
soft, grey fur
rubs my arm
that rough tongue
takes a single swipe,
offering an early morning
meow, “Good morning”
as my day starts,
with such a simple pleasure.
hour one
the rain is gently falling
tapping on the skylight
softly lulling
as we lay
he touches my cheek,
us falling into sleep…
Marathon
Well, i have been out of internet possibilities all weekend, so I will be posting my 24 hours of poems sporadically today & tomorrow as time at work allows…I did write my poems during the required timeframe…just now getting to post them..
Hour 16 – A Moment of Reason
Black leaves against the gray sky, the breeze cold yet frolicsome
Knowing not what to do
I stood there long, the forest ahead dark and deep
Should I go back? Find somebody I haven’t met?
Or ahead into merry insanity?
I saw our selves go..
Ahead, I saw ours :.)
Elvis going too?! Merry insanity!
Find some buddy I haven’t met, or a head?
Should I go back?
The forest ahead dark, and deep they stood
Their long knowing… not what to do
Black leaves against a gray sky, the breeze cold yet frolicsome
Poetry Marathon 2016: My recap
Yesterday, I participated in my first poetry marathon. Well, technically the half marathon. Twelve new poems in twelve hours. This morning, I’m very tired.
The whole exercise was deceptively difficult—not that I thought it would be so easy, but when I sit down with my big sketchbook to write, I often will write three or four poems at a time, taking maybe twenty minutes or so. That’s what I was thinking would happen when I signed up.
The way it actually worked was (more…)
Tunnel Vision
When I saw the grey rough cut stone I imagined the cutting;
no hands did this. Words did. Glorious, ancient words; unheard by ears.
“Let there be”…. land divided from water.
Every grain of life. Every thought he had thought, vision he had seen now came forth.
Formed out of the dust was man…. but before that…
creation. Land and sea, birds and creatures, time.
These ageless tunnels… were they from the beginning or was it the flood that cut them through. the opening up of the deep?
I will never know. I like it that way. The mystery of earth allures me to the mystery of God. And If I can’t explain this… how will I ever explain the creator?
Paying job
Work done at home is now what you are paid for,
Not what is done at the office or the sales floor,
So when you are sitting on facebook, or watching oprah,
you will be docked what the employer owes ya.
While you are cleaning, and the hours you cook,
will pay well, but not while you are reading that book.
You will be paid for folding clothes and sorting socks,
but not while the grand old rocking chair rocks.
Your job on the other hand, whether filing or digging,
crunching the numbers or oil well rigging,
will only be for the doing and not for the pay…
and you will only be there a few hours a day.
If housework paid money, playing with your kids double time,
would that change your priorities? It would change mine…
but that makes me sad when I think I would do more
If a paycheck for it wo
My friend Angela
The prompt for hour eleven is to write a poem about someone, but to break the poem up into ten short numbered parts. Not all the parts have to be explicitly about the person, some can describe there dress and behavior, others can make more obscure references to their style of speech. The details are entirely up to you.
- My friend from youth we rode and hiked and laughed and cried together Wrote our teen age sappy poems. Thought we would change the world
2. Tall and lanky, strong like her ancestors.
Braver than anyone I ever knew.
3. Few of spoken word, secrets no one could know… writer of the secrets of the earth.
4. Jeans, Boy shirts, boots and tees. Gypsy skirts, fringes and her red brown feathers.
5. Legs longer than I was tall. I tagged along every time she called. Double stepped to keep up.. always looked up… to her and at her. My friend who stood and was tall.
6. Army Sargent. I didn’t know that life. She became army, I became a wife.
7. Poetry kept us through early years, after the army, it brought us together again.
We now center our visits around one workshop or the other. Still trying to write it all.
8. The years have been kind. She is beautifully young.
Even her grey hair with liveliness is s spun.
Her eyes twinkle the fire of what she has and has not seen.
Her land is the world and she is the queen.
9. Her hands shake as she cares for her mom.
Where did the mental illness come from?
Her companion is fear, every day could be worse.
She does not crumble even under this curse.
10. My friend Angela, traveler, guide and hero
Strong beyond words. Strong with words.
Write for me Angela, tip each quill in your heart,
For in you is pureness… of which we all need a part.
Take each quill and hold it til it speaks secret things,
and write your words Angela until the the word sings.
445 Parkview Street # 23
I was going into grade one when we moved there,
My mom’s first house, she was so prepared,
A cute little corner house, white with orange trim,
Many amazing memories, some very grim.
Two small bedrooms, a bathroom, small kitchen and living room,
Perfect for a mother and daughter, Maybe a roommate too,
There was a basement , it was creepy to me as a child,
When ever I went down there, my imagination went wild.
This little corner house at 445 Parkview Street,
Helped raise me and my children, pretty neat,
Inside the walls of burgundy seen some things do down,
I can’t believe that I survived, and that house is still around.