She walked with downcast eyes
Everywhere she went.
Her lips were not curved,
Neither a smile nor a frown.
She moved with attitude
Emanating from her soul.
But she had been marred by life
And her story was sad and beautiful
All at the same time.
However, she kept it inside,
Letting demons feast on her soul,
While struggling to find her light.
Unable and unwilling to ask for help.
Pushing away those who loved her so.
Will she learn before its too late?
The ibis take flight
as the sun rises from the horizon.
White bodies contrast
against coral colored clouds.
They make no sound
except for feathery flaps
of their wings.
Off to start their day
in search of breakfast
amid blue skies.
What do you crave first thing in the morning?
by Carl Sandburg
Many ways to say good night.
Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July
spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.
They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit.
Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue
and then go out.
Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack mushrooming a white pillar.
Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying a baritone that crosses lowland
cottonfields to razorback hill.
It is easy to spell good night.
Many ways to spell good night.
This poem is in the public domain.
To celebrate the 4th of July, I chose to share this Carl Sandburg’s poem instead of trying to come up with my own.
I learned of Carl Sandburg as a child in Chicago. The first part of this poem reminds me of fireworks over the city, imagining what it was like downtown to see them at Navy Pier. As a kid, I’d lay atop my dresser, (…I was six or seven…) and look out the windows in the corner of my room, watching the fireworks display from a near by forest preserve.
Happy Independence Day, USA!
The rocking chair creaked as she rocked back and forth,
Her bare feet leveraged against the wooden railing.
Her hair had silvered with age, and thinned as well,
but the curls still sprung when it was humid out.
Crows feet spread from the corner of her eyes
from all the laughter and tears of her life.
He walked out, the screen door groaning closed,
the way old screen doors do, and
he handed her a tea and took a seat beside her.
His eyes and smile still sparked a fire deep in her soul.
She dangled her other hand from the armrest
and he slipped his in, holding her tight.
They looked at each other and smiled.
It started with them and what happened in between,
well, there were many other lives and loves,
but their separateness helped them understand
what it meant to love and be loved.
And the sun set on them, together, in the end.
Cocoa powder awaits,
Atlantic waves crash.
Sultry warm heat, and
cool tropical drinks, and
not much else in between.
Laughter and fun,
maybe a cookout too.
Kids build castles in the sand.
The surfers out on their boards,
the ladies reclined with their books.
Beach weekend, here we come!
I should be out walking. Yes, I know, I should.
My arm dangles from the edge of the bed, playing with Chance.
He flops on his side, purring, and begging for belly rubs.
It isn’t raining this morning. I really should be moving.
Chance wraps his paws around my arm, wrestling with me.
Get up, get up, he meows. He wants his treat.
So I stumble out of bed. Find my shorts, bra, and shirt.
Shuffling to the kitchen, reaching for his treats.
Here you go, boy. Good job getting me up.
Socks, shoes, and straighten up the bird’s nest on my head.
I’m going. I’m going. Off for my morning walk.
The bright sun above beats down, how hot can it get?
The glass of iced tea sweats, leaving behind a ring of wet.
The birds are silent; the weather is even too warm for them.
The dragonflies are hanging above, each insect they find a gem.
She waters the small garden, the heat makes her shoulders glisten,
The tomatoes perk up and the flowers and herbs brighten.
Being in the shade gives relief to some,
The warmest days are yet to come.
Pen to paper, scratch, scratch, scratch. Notes written in haste, important at the time.
Now they no longer make sense. They are just scribbles.
Hands to keyboard, click, clack, click. Emails and documents and meetings on top.
Work spins forward, as does life. But so much time wasted.
Talent and creativity, thrown aside just to meet a deadline. Just deliver on time.
Forcing the workday to end is hard, there is always more to do.
But I need quiet away, a moment to create, to escape, to renew.
Tender plumeria blossoming in the late-spring heat.
Their five-petaled flowers slowly unwind and spread out like the sun’s rays.
Yellow and white and pink and orange line our walkway.
Their delicate blooms dance in the afternoon drizzle,
the raindrops roll down the massive leaves.
As the rains grow heavy, the flowers yield,
falling to the ground leaving an aisle of heady fragrance,
With nothing more to do until another round of buds come in.
Every morning should start like this.
No alarms blaring, just pure bliss.
Birds sing out from the trees in glee,
while I brew up his coffee and my tea.
Some toast with jam in my hand,
And a comfy place to land.
Nature is where I fit in,
This is how every day should begin.
Dawn Renee Writes 