Arriving Home to My Priceless Inventions
in my humble abode
the minute I walk
through the door.
Four happy faces
to fill up the places
within my heart,
mind, and soul.
Made from our love
and some help from above.
Four magical beings
Their smiles and laughs
help me to relax
from the tired routine
So I kick off my shoes
and chill with my brood
as each recounts
Some jokes and a story,
I have not a worry
for I am a darn
Do I Look Like That?
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
you don't tell the truth at all.
My smile must be brighter than
the one you reflect to me.
My hair, I'm sure, is softer
and shimmers like the sea.
My double chin, I just don't
have one, and
My skin is much more clear.
My nose is slender, as is
my firm, shapely rear.
And, I'm positive my waist
is cinched and my hips
are perfectly round.
I look nothing like the image
you portray I've found.
So, mirror, mirror on the wall,
I don't believe in you at all.
(Poetic Asides prompt: priorities)
At five a.m. the alarm starts to ring
inflicted from motivation the late night brings.
But in the morning priorities wane
and sleep is the only thing I don't disdain.
I hesitate for just a moment before
I slam my hand on the snooze once more
and sink back in to my slothful ways;
I'll be more productive on another day.
Priorities of a Middle School Teen
The bell is buzzing, beating, and bellowing in my ear,
a horrible, heinous, hideous sound I always used to fear.
But from years of obeying and observing, I know that it can wait,
it's only math, a mysterious monster, who cares if I am late?
A moment in the bathroom, darn my wild, woolly hair.
Fluff and frizz and frazzled, genes are just not fair.
I saunter into the classroom, greeted by an agitated, angry man.
I can tell by his irked, intense demeanor he's not my biggest fan.
He questions my priorities. I roll my daring, dazzling eyes.
I balk his blabbering bombast, wishing I could curl up and die.
He doesn't seem to get it. He's old, outdated, and obtuse.
With computers and calculators, what's the indispensable use?
My priorites are just as they should be for a fledgling, feminine teen.
My persona needs perfecting in this mind numbing, middle school scene.
So I am gonna smack on some lip gloss, and polish up my nails
in hopes of grabbing the attention of some magestic, marvelous male.
You'll see me in your classroom after the halls are hollow and clear,
and as you tolerantly teach I won't be listening; this just won't be my year.
Let it Shine
Let the sun shine.
I want to frolic in its warmth with my shoes off.
Soft grass refreshing and cool between my toes
as I dance to nature's song.
I want to watch little smiles and small feet
climb up grassing hills just to tumble back down again.
I want to drink sweet iced tea nestled on the porch
with a tattered paperback book.
Just the blue sky and a story to sink in to.
Let the sun shine.
It's a let's bake cookies kind of day.
Not just a few,
but a lot of cookies
to fill the house.
Cinnamon and sugar swirling around
with a hint of vanilla to tickle the nose.
The warmth from the oven
igniting the soul.
And when the cookies are done,
we'll eat one or two
with a little cold milk
and smile from you.
(Poetic Bloomings prompt "Fruits of Our Labors")
Writing My (Unpublished and Maybe Unpublishable) Novel
It was easy in the beginning.
The words magically appeared
in my head and ran through my
fingers to the keyboard and
jumped onto the screen.
But in the middle the words stalled,
a broken down car in the middle
of the intersection.
I looked both ways
and began to push.
Slow and steady,
pushing with all my might.
A few words beating out with each step.
Each shove building momentum
until that car really began to move
and I was running to keep up.
Each character began making
her own decisions and
I was merely recording their
lives as they unfurled.
Typing the last word felt like
winning the lottery until
I realized I was only just beginning.
Draft and draft after draft,
asking myself, "Does this make
sense? Do I need this part? Should
I change this word?"
Each decision painful.
Each drastic cut like severing a limb.
I wasn't just the author
I lived through each character.
The story was me.
The story is me.
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