18. Still There
Where do they go,
the lines born to parchment
then aborted?
whose fetal metaphors,
each stillborn line,
lost before its time,
unbirthed before
the writer signed
and claimed it for his own?
Hour 16
Ended up with a prose type poem.
Hour 16
The problem with being in love with a group of poets is I’m monogamous. And most live hours away across state lines. And even if they were close I would be to shy to say much more than hi. So how could they fall in love with me back? And maybe I’m not in love love but one of those other forms of love the Greeks talked about. Back when Zeus’s love life was first told. Maybe I just love them like family. Or maybe it’s friends. Or maybe those are the same. But I know I love my circle of poets.
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
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