Category Archives: Uncategorized

“Inside My Shoes” (with a nod to researcher-poet Dr. Darius Phelps)

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Inside my shoes

are my feet 

that have been running since I was 2.


At first I ran

hoping to be chased—

by my big brothers, 

my big sister, 

maybe even one of my parents.


Eventually I ran 

to get away—

from my big brothers, 

my big sister, 

maybe even one of my parents.

Inside my shoes 

are feet with scars— 

hardship 

fear 

sadness

loss.


Inside my shoes 

are feet with stories—

standing up

Strength

resilience

victory.


Inside my shoes

are feet that still run— 

sometimes, when I don’t want to,

but I do it anyways because I know that it 

makes 

me 

stronger.


Inside my shoes

are feet that run

around the block, 

across the bridge, 

toward a 3K 

and maybe eventually a half marathon 

Running toward myself

In promises of  

progress and 

healing.

#VerseLove prompt: Write about a scar, one that may be physical in nature or one that might be more  emotional. To get started, think about these questions: Where did it come from? How did you get it? Who was with you at the time? What is the story that goes with the scar?  What would the scar say about you? etc. 

I was also inspired by poet-researcher Dr. Darius Phelps who prompted me to write “In My Shoes.”

A Weekend Glimpse Toward Eternity

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

The weekend’s upon us—the time to behold—

Time to recalibrate, connect, and just hang

Though this weekend might be rainy and cold,

When we look back, we will remember that we sang.

I intend to appreciate each second of the day,

As the sun moves east to west.

Believe it or not I will be home, not away,

So I might even get some rest.

Under myself I feel the need to start a fire—

Inspiration and more joy—because I’m telling no lie,

I’m seeing the approach of my eventual expire,

As we all know that life quickly goes by.

I hope to retire while I am still strong,

And do everything I love all day long.

#VerseLove—The prompt suggested to borrow the end rhymes from another poem or song, preferably a famous one, and create a new poem. I chose to use William Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold”

You’re Welcome Here on Our Block

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

(Reply to “Try That in a Small Town”)

Got a flat tire on the way to work;

Daughter’s mental health took a turn for worse;

Check’s coming next week, but there’s kids to feed.

You think you’re doomed, but your neighbor comes through.

We’ve got your back, come eat with us.

We will check in when times get rough.

We don’t have it all, but we have enough.

Well, you’re welcome here on our block.

See how much we care about y’all.

Around here, we take care of you.

You have a need, it won’t take long

For you to find out how much you matter!

You’re welcome here on our block.

Got a key that my neighbor gave me,

They say I am welcome any time.

Well, that’s what good folks looks like—good friends.

You’re welcome here on our block.

Love is up and down the road.

Around here, we take care of you.

You have a need, it won’t take long

For you to find out how much you matter!

You’re welcome here on our block,

Good neighbors up and down the place.

If you’re looking for some grace

You’re welcome here on our block.

You’re welcome here on our block.

You’re welcome here on our block.

See how much we care about y’all.

Around here, we take care of needs,

So come on, we want you to feel welcome.

For you to find out how much you matter!

You’re welcome here on our block.

You’re welcome here on our block.

Ooh-ooh

You’re welcome here on our block.

Trigger Warning: What Do You Know About Some Thirteen-Year-Olds?

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Thirteen-year-olds
Talk back sometimes,
Because they recognize their own 
Humanity.
And they might want to speak up
For themselves
For their friend
For justice.

Thirteen-year-olds
Like Sprite sometimes,
Except when their 
Best friend
Says that Orange Crush
Is better
So they try to like that
For a while.

Thirteen-year-olds
Want to be brilliant—
And they are—
But don’t always want
To do their homework
Because . . .
Video games,
Snapchat,
Texting,
YouTube
Bike rides,
Stories,
Daydreaming,
Music,
And
Sleep.

Thirteen-year-olds
Still have
Legos,
Action figures,
Stuffed animals,
Special blankets,
Favorite Pillows.

Thirteen-year-olds
Have
Big brothers,
Big sisters,
Baby brothers,
Baby sisters,
Baby sitters,
Hopes,
Dreams,
Fears.

Thirteen-year-olds
Have grown-ups 
They look up to
And at least one
Who they want to
See smile.

Thirteen-year-olds are
Children,
Babies,
Minors, 
Kids—
Just dipping into the teens years
Last week they were
TwelveElevenTenNineEightSevenSixFiveFourThreeTwoOne
Just born
Infants.

Thirteen-year-olds
Are afraid of ghosts
And get crabby 
When they need sleep.

Thirteen-year-olds
Smile
When their favorite teacher 
Greets them in the hallway,
When they get their first phone,
When their mom is happy,
When they see dog memes
And hear corny jokes.

Thirteen-year-olds
Need 
Someone to 
Remind them 
To eat their veggies,
To turn off their devices,
To go to bed,
To say “Please” and “Thank you.”

Thirteen-year-olds
Need 
Someone
To buy their clothes,
To tuck them in,
To drive them to school
To say “I love you.”

Thirteen-year-olds
Play
Hide-n-seek,
Heads-up-Seven-Up,
Simon Says,
“Don’t run.”
Put your hands up.
I didn’t say Simon says,
You’re out.

Thirteen-year-olds
Can
Dissect a frog.
Write an essay,
Make a friend,
Give a speech,
Break a bone,
Play a sport,
Reduce a fraction,
Get shot and killed for 
running while Black.

Misura Crescente

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Screen Shot 2020-03-20 at 10.24.33 PM

I

Am

Able

To fathom

Multiplication of

Sun-shaped “leeches”seeking new homes.

Each Pair of lungs becomes weaker, times two, doubling, infinita infinitis.

Isolating—hiding from Aching, Burning, Coughing, to hide our Aching, Burning, Coughing—Isolating even when it is too late and not enough—Ice. Soul. Late.

The crescent curve on the graphs/charts/maps that total the tolls and count the cases represents the exponential misery that cannot be totaled, because there is more ahead and the numbers keep growing. We can measure the growth and measure the growth, always, always watching the crescent point towards more.

Parcel

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Today’s Napowrimo.Net prompt is to write a haibun, which combines prose and haiku.  

 

Sliding out the side door, you step onto the deck to smell spring.  Worn wood tells the tale of quiet days reading in the sun. Summer soon shows up.  Before you set up the patio furniture, tulips have come and gone.  Lilies crowd around each other comparing their outfits and gossiping.  Before the sunburn cools, a brisk autumn breeze rustles the foliage and reminds you how quickly time flies.

Overfilled fire-pit
Branches, grass clippings, leaves and
No promise of s’mores.