Day 194, rainy and monday

Rainy and Monday
A rumpled silk river
Forges quietly ahead
It's top waters steady hands
But underneath is the turmoil
Of too much rushing
Too much moving
It's grey and brown complexion
A divine sort of concoction
Waiting to be tasted
It wags its fingers
Saying, come along, come along
It's come hither gaze is
Tantalizing, you begin to imagine
The way the water feels to your skin
Never realizing just how deeply
You'll have to dive to swim
It's current nothing but an undertow
Of hidden bitterness
Your dreams nothing but flotsam
It's silky deception
The silver sheen of lust

Day 193, what are your four words for the day?

Pick four words to describe your Sunday. Two on top, two on bottom and whoala! you have a poem!

subdued fatigue

vulnerable repose

Day 192, saturday morning

Saturday Morning
is little boys with cow-licked hair
rubbing against my chin
the smell of pancakes permeate
and fill the house, their gentle sizzle
a soothing sound that seems to blend
with the steam from our coffee
held in hand, balanced on a knee
pudgy toes rub together, sleepy
blue eyes close and open
it's a false but welcome lull, an
I've got nothing better to do but
lay around and flip the channels,
and then ten o clock is here and
the uniform is on, rowdy they run
outside to shoot some hoops
like a magic trick, the serenity
disappears as if it never existed
no trace of it at all.

Day 191. the golden drink

Was reading the Bible, seems the Irsraelites made an idol and to rectify the situation Moses grinds the golden calf into dust, pours the dust in a brook and makes them drink. Their own version of Gold Schlagger I suppose, complete with regret and humble pie.

The Golden Drink

It's an amber dust that floats
so serene, majestic, lavishly
atop the silvered stream
a gypsy dance that taunts,
agitates the lust of those
thirsty for a golden confidence
a face to look at.

Instead they dip their bronze
vessels slowly in, with long faces
the metallic blur of gold and silver
swallowed in, distributed
ingested, a heavy weight
to hold, this idolotry
a belly full of gilded sin the
cost of their redemption

Day 190, there isn't a poem for every mood

No there isn't a poem for every mood
every day is not best consumed
by words and pithy phrases
Today is not a day for poetry
it's a day for resting, sleeping in
but worry not, I'll go get my meds
and write something 
tomorrow, once again :)

Day 189, universal remote

I'm a universal remote
Adept, useful
Handy and needed
Until the big bottom
Of bronchitis sits down
On the sofa, squishes me
In between the cushions
Suddenly I'm mute,
Invisible, batteries draining
Irritated from the rub of
Crunchy crumbs and cold nickels

Day 188, blue, blue skies

It's PIRTY outside today, real pirty. So pirty I'm about to try to go running {cough, choke, wheeze} I can't help it. I'll go to the doctor later this afternoon though, no worries :)
Blue Skies
Blue, blue skies{let me interupt with the story of a little boy potty training, he loves his big boy underwear, carries it around the house... but when I just explained that to wear them he has to stay dry he said, "uh-uh, change my diaper, I wear diaper". That's what goes on in the middle of trying to write these poems... Mya Angelou surely did not have to endure this :) Now, back to blue skies thanks to Disney! }
This sunshine bathed day
washed in the pearly glow
of springtime hope
distills any fear of sudden dark
It's the way the warm
flurries of heat
swimming in the wind, splashing
on my skin, saturate my soul.
It's the way the brittle leaves of winter
edge themeselves in green
tenderly applauding the consistency
of mercy, a gentle praise
arising from the soft wrinkled
sound of branch and leaf
swaying, floating in the stream
of willy nilly mirth the brilliant day
breathes forth. 

Day 187, lukewarm

The word lukewarm invites the thought of sub par into my head.


Lukewarm

Lukewarm creamed spinach.
Lukewarm love.
Lukewarm tenderness,
lukewarm smiles
from lukewarm hearts
benign, impotent
diluted dreams
have no flavor
when they have no heat
lukewarm is a preservative
state of nowhere and nothing
no love, no hate
a peaceable zero
a buffer from pain.
Lukewarm. A flavorless
poison, a tasteless debate
nothing to savor
no taste and no flavor
Lukewarm creamed spinach.

Day 186, belligerance

I thought about this word today and it just sounded good to me. :)
Belligerent

It's a belligerent
heaving hacking thing
this coughing choking
wheezing thing
sputtering, gasping
spring fevery
{sigh}
spring fever indeed...

Day 185, camping trip

Last night there was a camping trip and joy, just fun and joy. I love little boys!

Unencumbered
joyful delight
slipped from voices
filled the night
arm in arm
singing
dancing
brilliant light
shining from
innocent eyes
red mudded
feet and dirty knees
a somber frown
easily pleased
by irreverance for
the midnight sky
the daylight still locked
in their smiles

Day 184, a fresh start

Surge, the word came to me while jogging the other day. I'm not made to run, I'm the worst runner there is. I walk quicker than I run! But I learned something from a friend. Pushing yourself is good, hurting can be good, it's growth. So when I found myself in less than ideal circumstances and the desire and need to get active I took my friend's advice, I started running.  I'm doing just a bit more in several places in my life. In that surge of energy and effort I have learned so much about myself, still am.  Still can't run longer than 4 minutes at a time but I am running 14 minutes out of twenty and that is a HUGE deal for this girl on her short little legs, it's something a little better a little more than before.

Surge

It's the surge of extra

effort that sends me bursting forth

a sand laden surfer at ease

with the break in the waves

the ebb and flow, the up and down

paddling, paddling, paddling

to get to the to the rising swell

of promise.

I surge because I must. It is

the only way to move forward

life will never push you forward

life is the ocean, it brings

you out to sea, consumes you.

I want to surf and surge,

ride the waves, swallow the foam

of failure and get back on the board

hang ten and collapse on the sand

safely exhausted.

Day 183 and it is finished! at my halfway mark!

... I never write for Sean. I loathe being mushy especially publicly but this just sort of wound up being his and so today is his birthday and I want him and you to know I absolutely love and adore the guy and every ounce of this poem is so very true of him. Thank you readers for tolerating this very long and slow poem! I'd ponder what I will write about next but for fear you would suggest something I will not ;) Love you Sweetie!



The day was inundated with triviality
it left me feeling futile, overwhelmed
the to-do-list a zealous kudzu vine,
its roots strangling joy from my hours.
I'm a discombobulated disaster
Like Punxatawney Phil yanked from his hole
just to fulfill irrelevant lore
but then there is his smile
an instant episiotomy on a too tight heart
a small infant joy given breath
He is my apothecary, slow moving
and gentle, he doles out his liquid kindness,
his subtle warmth, and I am healed.
The wicked day pales. I suddenly see
the verisimilitude of this moment.
The easy truth of tenderness.
The bitter flavour of my superfluous
aggravation sweetened by one
surreptitiously shy of being recognized.
His plethora of goodness a private prize,
a visible discomfiture arising with my praise.
This medicine, my invisible saviour.
He's not an abderian soul but serenity
flows from his veins, he knows how to sit
and be, and sit and be with me.
It's a euphoric content not to be intruded
on by dirty socks or practicality in general.
It's a hippopotamus kind of love
fierce and apt but rarely elegant
It's a stick to it resolve. A sweet brown
molasses covered adoration that
never cleans away.
The engagement ring could have been
dried tortellini around my finger
I would have accepted. I still would have,
even when he makes me livid, even when I
make him livid. Even then, it's always yes.
Yes, because the Urim and Thummim landed
just so, because serendipity is a philanthropist
that likes to laugh as well, the hermaphroditic
tangle of "yours" and "mine" a source of
hapless humor to one in love with luck.
But luck has no perserverance, not like
aged wine or buttered cheese. No, luck
has very little to do with our love. I find
no twinkle of favorable odds in his eyes
only bone deep conviction that we must.
So we do, and he does it so very well
that no day, no stress, no weariness
is more than the ways I love him.

Day 182, hermaphroditic, thanks to my brother

... today is HERMAPHRODITIC, I can only thank my brother Doug for this beautiful contribution. Brothers don't really stop being brothers ever do they? ...



The day was inundated with triviality
it left me feeling futile, overwhelmed
the to-do-list a zealous kudzu vine
its roots strangling joy from my hours
I'm a discombobulated disaster
Like Punxatawney Phil yanked from his hole
just to fulfill irrelevant lore
but then there is his smile
an instant episiotomy on a too tight heart
a small infant joy given breath
He is my apothecary, slow moving
and gentle, he doles out his liquid kindness,
his subtle warmth, and I am healed.
The wicked day pales. I suddenly see
the verisimilitude of this moment.
The easy truth of tenderness.
The bitter flavour of my superfluous
aggravation sweetened by one
surreptitiously shy of being recognized
His plethora of goodness a private prize
a visible discomfiture arising with my praise
this medicine is my invisible saviour
He's not an abderian soul but serenity
flows from his veins, he knows how to sit
and be, and sit and be with me.
It's a euphoric content not to be intruded
on by dirty socks or practicality in general.
It's a hippopotamus kind of love
fierce and apt but rarely elegant
It's a stick to it resolve. A sweet brown
molasses covered adoration that
never cleans away.
The engagement ring could have been
dried tortellini around my finger
I would have accepted. I still would have
even when he makes me livid, even when I
make him livid. Even then, it's always yes.
Yes, because the Urim and thummim landed
just so, because serendipity is a philanthropist

that likes to laugh as well, the hermaphroditic
tangle of "yours" and "mine" a source of
hapless humor to one in love with luck.

Day 181, serendipity. hmm...

... today is SERENDIPITY, such a pretty word, pretty meaning. I feel I've molested it somehow. Thanks Sefani Wilson! ...

The day was inundated with triviality

it left me feeling futile, overwhelmed

the to-do-list a zealous kudzu vine

its roots strangling joy from my hours

I'm a discombobulated disaster

Like Punxatawney Phil yanked from his hole

just to fulfill irrelevant lore

but then there is his smile

an instant episiotomy on a too tight heart

a small infant joy given breath

He is my apothecary, slow moving

and gentle, he doles out his liquid kindness,

his subtle warmth, and I am healed.

The wicked day pales.  I suddenly see

the verisimilitude of this moment.

The easy truth of tenderness.

The bitter flavour of my superfluous

aggravation sweetened by one
surreptitiously shy of being recognized
His plethora of goodness a private prize
a visible discomfiture arising with my praise

this medicine is my invisible saviour

He's not an abderian soul but serenity

flows from his veins, he knows how to sit
and be, and sit and be with me.

It's a euphoric content not to be intruded
on by dirty socks or practicality in general.

It's a hippopotamus kind of love

fierce and apt but rarely elegant

It's a stick to it resolve. A sweet brown

molasses covered adoration that

never cleans away.

The engagement ring could
have been dried tortellini around my finger
I would have accepted. I still would have
even when he makes me livid, even when I
make him livid. Even then, it's always yes.

Yes, because the Urim and thummim landed
just so, because serendipity is a philanthropist
that likes to laugh as well

Day 180, pasta and romance go together, right?

... today is tortellini and livid, thank you Rach and Terri :) ...

The day was inundated with triviality

it left me feeling futile, overwhelmed

the to-do-list a zealous kudzu vine

its roots strangling joy from my hours

I'm a discombobulated disaster

Like Punxatawney Phil yanked from his hole

just to fulfill irrelevant lore

but then there is his smile

an instant episiotomy on a too tight heart

a small infant joy given breath

He is my apothecary, slow moving

and gentle, he doles out his liquid kindness,

his subtle warmth, and I am healed.

The wicked day pales.  I suddenly see

the verisimilitude of this moment.

The easy truth of tenderness.

The bitter flavour of my superfluous

aggravation sweetened by one
surreptitiously shy of being recognized
His plethora of goodness a private prize
a visible discomfiture arising with my praise

this medicine is my invisible saviour

He's not an abderian soul but serenity

flows from his veins, he knows how to sit
and be, and sit and be with me.

It's a euphoric content not to be intruded
on by dirty socks or practicality in general.

It's a hippopotamus kind of love

fierce and apt but rarely elegant

it's a stick to it resolve. A sweet brown

molasses covered adoration that

never cleans away.

My engagement ring could
have been dried tortellini around my finger
and I would have accepted, I still would
even when he makes me livid, even when I
do the same to him. Even then, it's always yes.

Day 179, this poem is slower than molasses!

... today is molasses, think slow, think Thursday this whole thing is over! and then what?!...

The day was inundated with triviality

it left me feeling futile, overwhelmed

the to-do-list a zealous kudzu vine

its roots strangling joy from my hours

I'm a discombobulated disaster

Like Punxatawney Phil yanked from his hole

just to fulfill irrelevant lore

but then there is his smile

an instant episiotomy on a too tight heart

a small infant joy given breath

He is my apothecary, slow moving

and gentle, he doles out his liquid kindness,

his subtle warmth, and I am healed.

The wicked day pales.  I suddenly see

the verisimilitude of this moment.

The easy truth of tenderness.

The bitter flavour of my superfluous

aggravation sweetened by one
surreptitiously shy of being recognized
His plethora of goodness a private prize
a visible discomfiture arising with my praise

this medicine is my invisible saviour

He's not an abderian soul but serenity

flows from his veins, he knows how to sit
and be, and sit and be with me.

It's a euphoric content not to be intruded
on by dirty socks or practicality in general.

It's a hippopotamus kind of love

fierce and apt but rarely elegant

it's a stick to it resolve. A sweet brown

molasses covered adoration that

never cleans away.