More and more I think these days
Of life go quickly, in a haze,
But at the same time I can see
The days parading too slowly,
In somber and macabre ways:
But soon enough we’ll celebrate,
The end of the year 2020.
The news today is that President Trump is suggesting to delay the presidential election until in-person voting is safe. Though absentee mail-in voting is good, he says, to make it universal could lead to massive fraud.
People on the opposite side of the aisle are framing this as the president clinging to his spot in the Oval Office. I don’t think so. Say what you want about Trump; he is right that the potential for voter fraud is higher, and with the way his opponents have hounded him for the past 4 years, he is right to be worried.
I think no matter which way the election swings, it’s bound to be a disaster.
thunder and lightning
shouts of four horsemen ready
skies already gray
For DVerse Poetics “Flights of Fancy” and inspired by something I saw in my family’s garden yesterday.
The finch perches
On the back of a sunflower,
As she awaits her turn
At the filled feeder:
She finds her chance
And when she flies
The flower dances springily back,
In true sunflower fashion;
The finch uses the free
Surplus of birdseed
To fuel more of her
Flight and avian dreams.
She cursed those three pomegranate seeds.
Now caught in dark winter, she wonders
Whose bright idea was it
To let her daughter eat them?
Demeter’s mood is tropical storm, far from warm,
And she feels her precious baby’s
Breath become a frigid frost again.
Shared with the Writers’ Pantry this week. Magaly talks about keeping a sense of hope, and I wrote this even before reading that.
You are slowly opening: Hope in nature’s bloom,
Showing what it is to wait,
And to give growth room.
Yellow petals reaching out,
Pretty little flower,
Like a set of open hands
With surprising power.
Sowing seeds of your greatness.
I’m not sure if I like how this turned out, but here is my (first) attempt.
Isn’t gratitude something mystical?
It turns key limes into a pie,
It creates a banana split
From one humble fruit —
Bloom into Grandma’s hydrangeas:
Not every flower is showy
Yet they make a beautiful whole,
Isn’t gratitude something mystical
Running in the family of hope?
Maybe this poem makes me sound pathetic, but gosh all I want is a hug. I don’t live by myself but am still so isolated, especially emotionally. Thanks to Fandango for the prompt word, and I am also sharing with the Writers’ Pantry. Will post this before I change my mind.