~woot~

Back by popular demand...

I was cleaning my room and directly before I inhaled a crap load of dust, I found some po-ems I wrote in my last writing class. Ah angst-filled free verse. Enjoy...


Home
is where the heart is
is where the eye is
of the storm.

Is that the calm part, the eerie silence, the greenish indescribably Crayola sky, before wind whipping reality hits?
an interlude if you will.
a microcosm of charming suburbia sheletered from the big bad real world.

Yet like the eye, eerie in its silence,
(atmospheric) pressure building.

---

"I am growing children not a lawn."

Peppered with mossy spots
the favorite soft cushions of childhood reflections.

Roots protruding above the ground
from a tree we dared to climb scurrying and chattering, squirrel-like.

Onion grass, the weedy chives
a bite to nibble as an afternoon snack.

Ant hills, sandy mountains rising above the grassy plain
from our child's eye view, intricate civilizations to observe.

The lawn was indeed fruitful.

---

4 children + 2 parents = crowded bathroom

Yellow and white tiled, sunbeam sink, citron toilet, and a banana bathtub with tiny red fish adhered to the bottom, permanently swimming under little feet.
Grubby towels hang, stained with childhood adventures.

Potty training, science experiments, haircuts.
Alternately a private retreat or a crowded metropolis of teenage angst.
Are you decent? Can I brush my teeth in here? Would you hurry up!

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I'll follow this with news of pollinator welcomes, Philamadelphia, and Bolivia as soon as I can. View my trite creations as a placeholder.