The Poetry Marathon

Prompt 20 – Feeding my Dog – a Daily Ritual of Love

Image Courtesy of Pixabay

 

Each morning, as the sun stretches its golden fingers across the horizon, a ritual unfolds in my life, a dance of love and devotion. With a bowl in hand, I step into the quiet kitchen, where the soft light of dawn spills through the curtains.

The homemade feast, a medley of flavors and scents, is carefully portioned onto her plate. Her tail, a metronome of joy, wags with eager delight as she prances around, a ballet of excitement. Her eyes, deep pools of gratitude, meet mine, and in that moment, a bond unbreakable is reaffirmed.

With each bite, she tastes not just the food but the love that fills it. Her gentle slurps and satisfied sighs compose a melody that serenades my heart. In these quiet moments, as we share this morning ritual, I find solace and contentment.

Morning light dawns,

Tail wags, eyes speak gratitude,

Love’s daily ritual.

Antoinette LeRoux © 2023

 

Protected: In Other Words – H20

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What is love when it’s one sided?

what is love when it’s one-sided?
What is love if you’re not appreciated?
what is love when you feel like the journey is just yours?
What is this kind of love on rainy days?
In the heat? On bad days?
What is love when it’s one-sided?

Saturday ritual

Wake early,

body ready like a colt

brain fogged like an old horse

drink fresh water

Shower, skin cool,

basic stretches, look out for knees,

coffee, painkillers, boiled egg, blueberries.

Lace up the lilac trainers

with tangerine soles,

Attach barcode at wrist.

Car keys or rail pass

dependent on the destination.

Join hoards of other strangers gathering

at the start line

for nine,

or half past in Scotland.

 

 

 

Hour 20 – Giving Up

Giving Up
– A golden shovel based on To Be Known, a song by Carsie Blanton

Isn’t it interesting how
as you grow you
let go of all you had:
your home, your beliefs, a
clearinghouse of the child’s
ideas and ways. a-way
with the garden of
your past, a dreaming
memory. then, don’t
you know, you
turn around and miss
those very things. it
is gone. you now
must live without what you’ve
given up. sucks to be grown.

Hour 20: Chai

On a rainy day, or a Friday afternoon, or a Sunday morning after a long Saturday night,
I make my way to my kitchen.
I take out the special saucepan and the special cups,
reserved for this very special drink.

As the water begins to sizzle in the pan,
I take out the spices of my childhood.
Grind the cardamom, grate the ginger,
Losing myself in this rhythm, as if in a trance.

The water bubbles, the ginger cracks.
And it’s time for the most special ingredient of all.
Chai, black ground tea leaves.
Their strong smell overpowering my senses, their color turning the water a homely red.

I add some milk, the pan is now tan.
And now, I wait, watching the transformation of this concoction,
till it slowly darkens to that beautiful golden brown,
frothing, beckoning to me to get it off the stove.

I pour it out, with the same childlike fascination, each time.
Chai – this marvel of water, acid, and heat.
And as I take my first sip, enjoying the chai of my labor,
There is nothing else that matters in that moment.

Unassorted Chaos

It is the first thing in a long time

keeping my head buoyant above water

I’m pleased to be able to share it with you

(Hour 20)

Hour 19 prompt

DO I NEED YOU?

I wrote your value on my hand,
But the soap washed it away.
I wrote your value on paper.
But the wind blew it away.
I protected you in my bank,
But my busy schedule kept you away.
I toiled day and night,
Just to save you for the future.
You are just a piece of paper,
Yet you are invaluable.
Who are you?
Why do people forget their morals and ethics for you?
Why can’t we live without you?
What is so special about you?
Why are you so famous?
Why do people call you with so many names?
Nobody can answer these questions.
You are nothing to nature,
Yet you are everything to us, human beings
You are the crux of our life,
Your name is MONEY!

POEM BY
SHREYA SURAJ

Under Constraint

It goes without saying

that on Sundays we dress,

paying attention

to what would be best

for focus on God—

not on what others wear;

not their hats,

nor their shoes,

or the style of their hair.

Clothed in the armor of God-

And the garments of praise

perhaps bowing in silence,

or shouting, hands raised.

Not a matter of clothing,

but the best we might bring,

as we gather to bow

before Savior and King.

Yet each saintly lady

who squirms in her pew,

when the speaker speaks long,

as they often do—

Isn’t thinking of kickoff—

as he winds up his speech—

or the roast in the oven

not sand at the beach,

not even how hot

it’s gonna be in the car—

she’s itchin’ for ditchin’ that

push-up,

underwire,

Sunday-best

bra!

Companion, Hour Twenty

Companion

Life during our early retirement
more often than not is busier than work,
and so we create means and methods
to be together, innocuous routines
that bring us near to one another again.

I make our coffee at the keurig in our room
and in the meantime he makes the bed.
When the coffee is properly creamed and sugared
I carry it outside to our patio retreat
while he fills feeders for hungry bird and squirrel hordes.

Plans for our day, hopes for our future,
all are hashed out at that morning table.
We walk the dog, and the grandson, too,
to his bus stop, and wait for his ride to arrive.
When he’s on his way, we and the dog trundle on home again.

Silly, but sweet, the lengths we will go to be near one another once more.