Soccer Ball Piggy Bank
January 20, 2014 § Leave a comment
The ceramic container is dependable,
if nothing else. But it is something else.
It’s the shape of a soccer ball,
actually, it is a soccer ball.
But it’s ceramic,
and has never been kicked or stained with grass.
It stands there, or sits there, I’m not sure which one,
but like I said, it’s dependable, as most ceramic objects are.
It has held my coins since I was eight. Sturdy and decorative.
Being pumped with change, instead of air.
But every year, being completely deflated
of the treasures it holds so still and careful,
emptied aggressively with loud banging and clanging
and shaking upside down.
Its contents spilling out onto the floor
for the world to see. A meager compensation
for a years worth of dependability.
The sturdy container, now emptied of its worth,
its pride, is set back onto its perch
next to a flowered picture frame
and a rock shaped like a turtle,
where it will sit for another year
being dependable, but forgotten,
its contents losing value
and then spilling out onto the floor.
morning glory
January 17, 2014 § Leave a comment
some say glorious things
are buried deep within the earth
they say they are hidden
and must be discovered
they say they are rare
and come only to those
who work or wait or wish
for glorious things.
but what if,
what if, there is glory
for everyone who looks
and magic for all who see
and wonder for all who feel
if glorious things are hidden
are rare,
what is the magnificent light
forcing my eyes open
each and every day
making my room glow,
making the world glow,
allowing me to see the simple joy
of deep brown eyes
filled with unconditional love
a wagging tail
that is not discretionary, does not judge
a sniffing nose
that always recognizes and knows
a furry head
that rests on the edge of my bed
ecstatically happy to see me.
Sonata
January 16, 2014 § Leave a comment
The air in the room was old
like it had been resting there
unmoving and patient
for the past 75 years, waiting for someone
to breath it.
And I didn’t want to breathe it,
but that really was not an option.
And I sat at the piano and smiled
at the lady in the glasses
who was as old as the air
and probably just as stiff.
And she nodded, and nodded.
And I smiled and smiled.
And then remembered I was supposed to play
a Sonata,
but the air was so old
and the keys were so sticky and yellowed.
The air parted its lips, urging me to play
Or maybe it was the lady.
And the keys I had played for 5 years, or so
on my piano at home
looked foreign
And the Sonata I had learned 6 months ago
and practiced and practiced daily
lingered in front of me on the white pages.
And as I pressed the first chord
firmly into the keys
I heard a sound pierce the old air
sending it scurrying away
and then I heard the same foreign sound
coming from my fingertips
And I realized I had forgotten
my entire Sonata.
How Are You
January 15, 2014 § Leave a comment
the script is enduring
pleasantries echoed
by almost all
they recite the words
but no meaning lives
behind them
and they float in the air
between two beings
and search for a listening ear
but freeze instead
their vibrations slowing
not able to fully travel
through all the meaning
the clutter
the chaos
and the simple words
that could create something wonderful
are lost, or just forgotten
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Tree Wonders
January 14, 2014 § Leave a comment
I wonder about the tree outside my window
and how long it’s been alive
and marvel at the way it almost touches the sky
and I guess it does
people say I’m tall, but I’m nothing
compared to the tree’s majestic height
I wonder what it thinks of all of us below
how small and insignificant we are
scurrying back and forth
as aimless as ants
does it wonder why
we are not still
and I wonder about its roots
extending through the earth
in purposeful patterns
but making the tree
inherently still
unable to drift as the leaves do
that gently escape from it each fall
does the tree wish it too could drift
away from all it’s seen below
or does it pity those who will never know
the wonder of staring at a single sky
but still seeing the world
Moment
January 13, 2014 § Leave a comment
the memory of
humid night air
seeping through the vents
of my car, and us, still
holding air in our lungs
should our breath
stir the other
causing a butterfly
effect, of sorts
a punctured moment
to remain imagined
so we are still
and hesitance becomes
our greatest friend and foe
but the air surrounding us
is waiting too
absorbing into our skin
and remaining there
should we ever forget
Anomaly
January 12, 2014 § Leave a comment
Even though it is winter
I must be very clear,
I do not want to talk
about the weather, my dear.
Your complaints, they are often,
my patience is not,
so I implore you to please
not involve me in your thoughts.
Not that I don’t value
your researched opinions
of how the wind chafes your skin
of how you couldn’t find your mittens.
It’s just that I want to hear
something that’s more of a thrill
a topic that doesn’t involve
the weekend’s incoming chill.
Am I being too direct?
I’ve been so lately when I speak,
but it’s really not my fault,
you see it’s been raining all week.
Who
January 11, 2014 § Leave a comment
I never want to be the one with the bitter yawn
who accepts life as it is, simply sits as a pawn
of thought and the like, of the life they are living,
one who doesn’t believe her choices are many.
I never want to accept my state, be too tired to storm
outside of my world, and seek a difference in norms.
I want to be the one not content to just be,
who disrupts and fights to set others free,
the one who can cast bitter tastes aside,
and live to be better, and in this, take pride.
I want to make action and passion and change
I want to live in the moment, but outside of my range.
Joy’s Whisper
January 11, 2014 § Leave a comment
a happy spirit,
who feels the wind,
cold and gentle,
prickly,
who finds peace
in skin that shivers
and hair that dances
in circles and patterns,
who exalts in its trembling
whisper, moving
across the surface
of crowded cement
and lazy pools of water,
rejoices.
For the wind
makes life
change, and change
will not cease,
as long as a spirit lives and breathes
deeply and exhales silent waves
of joyful wind.
Until Then.
January 10, 2014 § Leave a comment
If inspiration fails to emerge
how will I ever write beautiful words?
How will I describe this dainty red rose
without the help of a sonnet or prose?
The act of creating a stanza or verse
is impossible, unless you are fully submersed
in creativity, insights, knowledge, and wit,
all of which seems to be just past my grip.
So I leave with you with this short and simple creation
I hope it suffices until I find more inspiration.
rosepoems 