16. Haiku Too
Sailing in the dark
Past harbors and anchored bays
To the misted morn.
Yoga break – Hour 20, Prompt 20
Yoga, meditation, too
my body needs you
hands touch the floor
stretch my brain into four
so it can think more
hour twenty is here
this ritual I hold dear
I stretch my hands high
for a metaphor of sky
then jump up three times
to catch some more rhymes
four more squats
turn my words hot
down dog pose I do
thus onomatopoeia, too
when poem is through
a tree pose is due
then bed, I heart you.
– Sandra Johnson, 9-3-2023
Hour 19 (Untitled)
Resting my head
on my pillow brings me so much joy
opening drawers to reveal
many private things
Hour Twenty: Dinacharya
Mornings set the tone of the day, and patterns comfort the mind
that seeks rhythm, meter, color schemes, and conspiracies.
I rise and evacuate in the lavatory across the hall as I shed sleep.
Pulling out the copper wishbone, I rinse and scrape my tongue, then
place a half teaspoon of coconut oil between my lips and swish.
With ballooned cheeks and taut jaw, I prepare the kitchen table:
half lemon, hot water, coffee, gluten-free bread, half an avocado,
garlic salt, knife, multi vitamin, cranberry juice pill, and probiotics.
And while the bread toasts, I scoop a cup of kibble for eager Artemis
(the other one stays under the bed until a decent hour for rising), and
grab a little garlic salt to sprinkle atop the avocado on toast, squeeze
lemon in hot water, spit out the oil, brush my teeth, swallow my pills,
cream the avocado on toast, and sip my coffee to the crunching jaws
and wagging tail, slapping the cabinet doors, as I play word games on
my phone, read news, messages from the universe, and check my
morning emails before setting off downstairs to open the back door
for the awaiting kitty cat, then hit the bath, where I practice pranayama,
meditate, stretch, dress, and write the morning gratitude for the day.
Dinacharya, life rituals order my mornings, no matter how the
remaining hours unravel in the frayed edges of orderly chaos.
.
What is Love But? Hour 10
What is love but a baby’s first breath,
first smile, first word, first step.
A new life brought forth
by a coupling of two in love, in lust.
What is love but a child
holding a fallen chick in her
small hands. Asking her mother
to please fix the tiny creatures wings.
What is love but a simple dog
in service to her master, struggling
to her feet when wracked in pain
herself to aid the one she serves.
What is love but the picking
of a wildflower by the child now
grown to lay atop the soil
covering her mother and loyal dog.
GORDON – #18
Cross barred Gordon reminded by the stroke of eleven
Sweet briar Mary was waiting at the Ceilidh
But graves dug deep and marked rest in peace
Prevent the dead from keeping their promises
Rooting for Routine (Hour 20)
I’ve a routine
which consists of
Avoiding routine.
Rerouting.
Never exit and enter
through the same door,
You never know who is waiting
in the corridor.
A pissed off orator, or ex.
My son, every morning
Our routine was eggs,
But no more routie tootie fresh and fruity
truly groovy cooky routine
Rulette de russ
Rooting for Rudy
There’s ruby’s
in boobies
I lick em and
blew each,
WITH BLUE JAZZ,
A BLUE BEACH
BLUE balls in uhauls,
With brujos in New clothes
The emperors new hos
Are covered in glucose.
You are what you do most.
I do poems so . . .
What do you do.
a routine.
Hour Nineteen: Writing poetry in black pajamas while out of my mind with exhaustion and trying (unsuccessfully) not to fall asleep
Reclining in my nest
Surrounded by my loves –
Past, present, future—
Beckoning me towards
Dreams and desires but
The screen atop my lap
Umbilicaled to the lightening
Holds me down
Keeps me in place
As I drift away with the night
Rituals
Rituals
I count my days ~
free from one
of lifes
worst addictions
documenting each day lived
through pictures and words
handmade
I will always
be an addict
I just choose
other outlets
I count my steps
as my consistency
reminds me of how far
I’ve come
I count my words
prompting, planting
propagating, and perpetuating
making them multiply