Monday.
Life begins again on Monday.
Work, school, family, all starts anew.
Monday comes first, and follows the last.
On Monday, we wake up and prepare.
Some are excited, others filled with dread.
For some, Monday let’s them forget the past.
The weekend that was, now a memory.
The weekend to come, full of anticipation.
Monday the cycle resumes.
We start anew on Monday.
I’ll write this poem on Sunday in preparation for Monday.
Oh, Monday.
The Daily Prompt for today is: Describe a memory or encounter in which you considered your faith, religion, spirituality — or lack of — for the first time.
Faith: A Poem
Son, I have to tell you something.
What is it Dad?
Grandma, she…she’s gone son.
What do you mean? She passed away,
she’s with God now.
You mean she died?
Yes.
But why? Why did God take her?
Because it was her time son.
But I’m going to miss her, I already do.
I know, but her mission on Earth was complete.
I don’t like God right now. He took Grandma.
Maybe you should ask him why son.
Okay, but I still don’t like him.
I know, in time you’ll forgive.
I don’t know, I miss Grandma.
Dad, I asked God about Grandma.
What did he say?
He said he needed another angel.
What did you say? I said okay, I understand.
Did you forgive him?
Yes, and he told me I can talk to her anytime,
she’s my angel.
I just have to have faith.
Several types of Cirrus clouds. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Daily Prompt talks about finding yourself in the zone. Getting lost in a simple activity. We all take time to stare at the clouds. Whether alone, or with others. I thought a poem would be appropriate.
Lost:
Staring at the clouds in the sky.
They float by, in shapes and hues.
A tiger, a lion, a dog.
A bird, a castle, was that a fish?
Different shapes. Different things.
All characters that distract from my surroundings.
The wind is blowing, the tall grass sways.
Sunlight comes and goes as the clouds of shapes pass by.
Birds, I hear none. I forget the bustling people around me.
I forget the past, get lost in my present, and don’t think of the future.
The shapes of clouds take me away.
I get lost staring at clouds in the sky.
To remember all those we lost and to say thank you, a poem written nearly 100 years ago by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
I’m stuck on blogging.
I’m actually stuck.
I can’t seem to find ideas.
Wait, no, I have many.
So many post ideas, I forget.
What to do?
I should write them down.
I forget to.
The computer crashed.
Darn Windows 7.
My ideas slip away.
Computer fixed.
Thanks neighbor for your help.
I still can’t find my ideas.
Must backup the computer just in case.
Why didn’t I back up the computer before?
What do I blog about now?
The baby cries. Diaper changing time.
Man, I wish I could remember my ideas.
I’ll do a random post that resembles prose.
Its Saturday, time to mow the lawn.
I’ll be back.
I came across a poetry prompt a few weeks ago that talked about making a poem out of a saying. Simple enough, write a poem using a saying you say a lot. But it was challenging. I’ve been accused of saying “it is what it is,” more than I should. So this is what I came up with:
It is what it is.
I always say.
What it is it?
It is what it is.
It is what it is.
It was what it was,
because it is what it is.
Is it? What?
What is it?
It is what it is.
What was, is,
what is, was.
It is what is,
because it is what it is.
One night you came to me,
happy and joyful.
Tears in your eyes,
you said we were now going to be
three.
Months passed.
We discovered so much more.
Little hands, little feet.
The greatest sound of all,
a new heartbeat.
Good tears streamed down your
cheeks.
I the proud to-be papa choked with joy.
One night, sound asleep, I awoke.
Water broke,
I flew the car to the hospital.
Greeted by a blurry-eyed doctor with a smile.
The nurses fluttered,
into the sterile room we went.
You squeezed my hand,
Within the hour your belly went.
An endless pause,
then the silence broken.
A scream of new life.
The good tears came once more.
Who knows, maybe one day,
we will grow again from three to four.
Protagonist.
Antagonist.
Conflict.
Anti-climatic
climax.
Characters fight.
Love, hope, despair.
Authors evoke emotion,
Stories stoke the mind.
Plots, story lines.
Readers pull imagery from words.
Writing is craft.
Writing is art.
The author is the artist.
Readers are the audience.
Write to create.
Create to share.
Characters exist as variations of the creator.
Personalities create art.
Art creates personalities.
Writing is craft.
The blank page stares back.
Speaking to the writer.
Give me words to say.
I can’t.
I have none to give.
You must, for you are the writer.
My mind is as blank as your lines.
Ideas, surely you must possess.
My thoughts, jump and dance.
But nothing?
Nothing.
I hope you write again.
I hope so too.
Do not despair.
I won’t.
My lines will stay bare, only for you.
Geese overhead flew south.
Escaping the cold of winter coming.
She walked out the door.
Never to return.
Heartbroken.
Wind blown prairie.
Silent day.
The quiet broken by childish laughter.
Her painful journey stopped.
Thoughts.
Warmth.
Forgiveness.
Joy of children’s innocence wipes away the pain.
She returns.
Family.
Love, companionship.
Home.
The Dad In Me 