Monday: Write a poem/story/list/sentence about what you miss during the winter months.
WILDFLOWER GIRLS AND TRAPPED DRESSES –
summer dresses, folded small and forlorn
from distant memory and cold storage they beg to be worn
stuffed crudely in plastic bins with lids shut tight
missing the feel of a body’s curves in the sun’s warm light
winter’s cruel lack of radiance causes bleak and dark days
wildflower girls like me diminish under skies of all grays
worse yet, a dress isn’t a dress if it’s forgotten a woman’s shape
come spring, i will bloom as the dresses make their escape
Tuesday: Write a poem/story/list/sentence about your hands.
ROUGHLY BEAUTIFUL –
i have this bad habit of painting my nails too slowly
varnishing two nails at a time is easy, but sometimes i wait an hour before doing two more
sometimes a day
once the last half moon is perfect, the first begins to chip
my fingers hover in a constant state of in between
painted but naked / preparation interrupted / a pit stop at crude on the way to proper
these hands are a microcosm of me
despite the inability to be fully one or the other, we continue to exist on both planes
stripped and plain sometimes ugly, but striving for the pretty, the painted, the polished
content to be rough around the edges with brief moments of beauty
in-between – not perfect
Wednesday: Write a haiku about your lunch break.
LUNCH WITH DOG –
lunch time dog-walker
tennis shoes and toe bean steps
leash connects two hearts
Thursday: Poem from bed.
COFFEE STEAM –
hands surrounding warm, porcelain
soft music and bird song
warming up and waking up
mug held to lips, constant sips
warm my throat
heat seeps into hands and cheeks
but shoulders kissed by the air conditioner seem to freeze
another state of in-between
light begins to sneak through the blinds
the sun coaxing me out of bed
away from this warmth of rising steam into the warmth of its own rays
Friday: Poem with the phrase ‘hear me roar.’
INK NOT BLOOD –
I may write more than I shout and read more than I argue.
I may march with a sign not a sword.
But I am still fighting.
These deeds have power, though unconventional.
Books have the capability to alter minds; to promote ideas without fanfare or trumpets.
The greatest ideas need not be yelled the loudest.
Though my war paint is drawn in ink and not blood, it still paints a picture.
Not one of red. We’ve had enough violence.
Words of empathy will build the bridge of understanding.
Read these words to hear me roar.
Saturday: Write out a full page of your favorite things.
IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER: