Wage Peace

Wage Peace

by Judyth Hill
September 11, 2001

Wage peace with your breath.
Breathe in firemen and rubble,
breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds.
Breathe in terrorists
and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.
Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.
Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.
Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.
Make soup.
Play music, memorize the words for thank you in three languages.
Learn to knit, and make a hat.
Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,
imagine grief
as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish.
Swim for the other side.
Wage peace.
Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious:
Have a cup of tea and rejoice.
Act as if armistice has already arrived.
Celebrate today.

©Judyth Hill

Finding Happiness?

I couldn’t find my happiness
It wasn’t in its place
Not here
Nor there
It’d disappeared
Or hadn’t ever been…
“I’ll find it yet!” I said
I swore
Then sat in Thinker pose
But
-Although I checked behind
Below
Beneath
Bereaved?
I couldn’t find my happiness
Although
I found my sock.

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~~~~~

Pretty sure John influenced this one.

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Photo Credit: Les Triconautes

Two Poetic Parodies

Now I write when I should sleep;
I write so followers I’ll keep.
If I can rhyme before I wake,
Then approbation I will take.

~~~~~

Two souls converged on a bed of wood,
And told each other, “I’m sorry;” both
And; one, rising, sighed with doubt and stood
And looked with as much love as she could
To his messy hair and undergrowth;
Then thought of another, tall and fair,
And how he had tried, her love, to claim,
Because of a black dress she could wear;
Though the dress was gone; pants hung there
Had, to her mind, an effect the same,
And she therefore turned to bed to lay
In satin folds of sheets grey and black.
Oh, if she’d not want another day!
Yet if he’d not shrug; say ’twas her way,
I know he’d not get cold shoulder, back.
I watch and tell ’bout them with a sigh
Somewhere, sometime, and somewhere now hence:
Two souls converged on a bed of wood,
And told each other, “I’m sorry;” both
And that has made all the difference.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

And this is why you go to bed at a reasonable time.

I Love Your Perfect Crow’s Feet

I love your perfect crow’s feet,
With crown-and-implant smile –
Your smooth-soled orthopedic tread;
Your pref’rence for ar-gyle.
I need my medications
When you commandeer your ‘chair,
When you wink behind trifocals,
When you comb remaining hair.
There’s something sweet and tender
About shouting, “What’d you say?”
Or asking for my keys, because
You put them “somewhere safe.”
I love a man who’s up all night;
Who naps by afternoon.
I’m crazy ’bout “that government”
And soft and mild food.
But, most of all, my dearest,
I really love the way
I never see the wrinkles ’cause
You haven’t aged a day.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Little Willie: Some Terrible Poems

Little Willie learned of love
Tried it on a girl he’d heard of
Saw her driving; tried to rush
Now he feels a different crush.

A fresh apple!
-Willie sees
Newton’s Law
Sees Wil-lie.

Once when Willie, feeling bold,
Traded in his gramma’s gold,
Midas Pawn Shop learned too much;
Gave poor Will their famous touch.

Willie broke his mama’s back
Try’n to step on ev’ry crack
Mama’s had it with his sass
Used her cane to whip his hide.

Hole in ‘chute,
At airplane jump;
Will said, “Shoot!”
Then, he said *clunk!*

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Wanna try a Little Willie poem? They’re the topic of this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest!

Throwback Thursday: Plus-Size Podiatry

From July 21, 2017, another of my favorite silly poems. Because of my apelike toes, I wear the large, unladylike size of 11. This poem is my lament whilst shopping.

Plus-Size Podiatry

O, footwear on that narrow shelf
Daintily curved ’round your arch:
How appealing, how smart you poise
Atop, as if lining to march.

O, footwear, you awaken some
Feminine joy -I’ll confide.
Even in such a tom-boy me,
I squeal a tad deep inside.

O, footwear, I search hungrily
And seize your match in my size.
But, alas! Once again, I find
You, when that large, look like guys’.
Sighs.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

An Overworked Poem About the Post

The post

Sky ghosts,

is never late.

‘gainst earthbound weight.

In backward cars

Self-lifted, ours

down country roads,

with cloud-held loads.

the smart-dressed man

The barefoot clan

(or, smart wò-man)

(and –true– bare-hand)

comes round each day

cavort and play,

to drop a note;

whilst ‘letters’ float

turn down a flag.

from heav’nly bags.

for

for

Neither snow

When winds blow

nor rain

‘gainst wingèd pain

nor heat

-lofty feet,

nor gloom of night

always in flight-

stays these couriers

windflung ferriers.

from the swift completion

Our mail tote: depletion,

of their appointed rounds.

Soaring o’er the rabbl’ing ground.

 

Written for Carrot Ranch‘s prompt: a postal carrier in an extreme situation.

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©2020 Chelsea Owens

January 30, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about a postal carrier in an extreme situation. Even if you base your story on a true one, focus on the core trait of this postal carrier. Go where the prompt leads!

Respond by February 4, 2020. Use the comment section… to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

Photo credit: https://unsplash.com/photos/h-yb5TjYJ-I

Waxing Poetically with Jules

From Jules:

Waxing Poetically started in a comment section (here) with my friend Chelsea Owens and I thought I’d create a page for the ‘script’ and ‘dribble’ that we are ‘waning’…

Jules mentioned how she wanted to use “waxing poetically” in a poem. What a great line, I thought, and supplied one in the comments.

The candle burns
Majestic.
It pools; it waxes
Poetic.

Like any great friend and writer, Jules answered.

Waves as it pools…
melted by its lit wick
the drunkard sleeps
as his drool reflects…

I responded again; then she did. And on. Not only that, but Jules created a page just for our poem. Click here to read it in its entirety.

 

©2020 Chelsea and Jules