Posted tagged ‘ode to the quotidian’

Ode to the Windowed Hall Where I’ve Not Turned on the Light

September 28, 2017

Ode to the Windowed Hall Where I’ve Not Turned on the Light

It is a bar that is not a barrier but
a passage,
where I pass by the glass of night
that is able to make itself known
in the absence of over-reflection,
the way you made known to me,
I you,
when, in the darkness,
we found something other than walls
to hold on to–



Poem for my own prompt on Real Toads re thinking about the little things.  Check it out. 

Also, if in the mood, check out my two new children’s books, DOGGONE! and DOES MELANIE LIKE MELON?   Or other books! 


Ode to Lined Paper

March 23, 2016


Ode to Lined Paper

Oh you blue guided,
oh you straight swayed,
oh you not-wide-dotted
as child’s work/play.

Oh you stretched
for the sinuous (that double-dutchness
of slant loop)–oh you thread
of my tale, you tail
of my thread,
you path
to be read,
you orderly gift to gab, you dignifier
of what sounds stupid solely said–

Oh you road through blinking
deserts, you remembrancer
of sky–


A very draftish poem, meaning just now written, for Real Toads Open Platform.  As one may infer from my little (recycled) drawing, this (like my previous poem, Ode to our Feet) is somewhat influenced by Pablo Neruda’s Ode to my Socks


Ode to A Rock (On a Bedside Table)

June 20, 2015

Ode to a Rock (on a Bedside Table)

You’re heavier than
your grey,
and so rounded
you’d pass for a stone
if rolled some way.

And I (meaning me)
could use you, my husband says one night,
to throw at the forehead of
a gunman, knock
him out.

This casts you
in a somewhat different light–
no longer an oversized bite
of forest floor, something to hold open
a door,
but a possible means of deliverance
like the rock rolled away
from the tomb.
Only not.

For I’m not sure gunmen are swayed
by rocks, certainly not rocks
of faith, ages–

Hard to understand
even when your heft
weighs down my hand
that you will outlast its flesh–
that all our individual flash
will transmute to dust, ash,
while the wind still feeds on you–

So, life seems to pass faster
than a speeding bullet for some,
while for others, it is taken away
at exactly
that pace–

A draftish poem of sorts for my own prompt on Real Toads to make an ode to something relatively quotidian.  This one, of course, is very influenced by the horrible tragedy in Charleston, South Carolina, this past week, at the Emmanuel African Methodist Church. 

I’ve edited this since first posted, as the end didn’t quite get across the meaning I was aiming for.  Thanks. k.