This is my only today
One opportunity to be
One chance to choose my way
One day to seize opportunities
This is my only today
.
This path is not the only way
I may choose other vistas to see
I may have new speeches to say
I may see what’s ugly beautifully
That path is not the only way.
Leaves wave
from tree tops
Some exhuberant,
amazed to greet the sky,
some, more lazily,
wave with sighs
Will I choose you?
Or you?
Or will I choose at all?
Am I ready for this work
of nurturing potential?
My world is wound tightly
with possibility,
fighting emotionality with
rationality.
twelve
one
two
three
o’clock.
This hotel room is absent of you,
No lovers’ talk,
just me,
myself,
and seven o’clock is coming far
too soon.
Your jar of pickled poems–
cheek puckering poetry,
sour smiles behind glass–
makes me laugh.
.
.
.
My students handed in their poetry collections today. Among them is a jar with poems written on green pickle shaped papers. 🙂 Bethany wins cutest poetry project. Too bad it wasn’t a contest. (Hmm. Maybe next year?!)
There was no way to stay.
Whatever choice was made
was bound to be wrong,
because this song we create
requires we pay again and again
for our harmonic
dissonance.
.
.
Still reading Jodi Picoult’s Mercy. Do you write poems for the characters you read about?
