About Archie I am owned by an orange and white cat Who, by all accounts, should be fat He eats quite a lot When he doesn't get caught He really can be such a brat The orange cat is Archie by name He thinks scratching me is a fine game Archies jumps on my head Then strikes a pose on the bed For a photo to add to his fame I'm writing this poem while he's here He's demanding attention, that's clear He purrs and he rubs I think he wants grubs An empty dish is his one great fear.
This post was written as part of the Slice of Life challenge. Please visit the Day 30 post on Two Writing Teachers to see who else has written today!
Let's Go The spring sun shines My dog is hopeful She noses at my keys But there isn't time. My dog is hopeful The tail is wagging But there isn't time "Let's go," her eyes plead. The tail is wagging She noses at my keys "Let's go," her eyes plead. The spring sun shines.
This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Susan at Soul Blossom Living.
Tonight I am "worded out," after a two-hour class, and a long day, and a Migraine that refused to die. I want to write brilliant things, but I just don't have it in me. The words won't come, and no amount of London Fog tea will coax them out of the shadows. So I shall have to be satisfied with this: An experiential lesson in being human.
You can view other writers’ Day 9 contributions via the comments here.
The minutes are ticking away, and the clock shows me that I’m running out of time. I am so proud of my Slicing streak (even if I’m not doing as well as I’d like on the commenting side), but I’m in danger of losing it now.
My gaze flutters around my desk, looking for something — anything — to write about. Then I spot it: the small, wooden bird that I purchased for five bucks on a Facebook yard sale group.
I pick it up; it’s light, like the chickadees that land in my hand for black oil sunflower seeds up at the park. It’s pine, I think, and I can see subtle marks from the knife that whittled it, and the gradations of shading in the grain.
I’m not sure what made me send the message (“Is this still available?”), but I needed to bring it home. To hold its tiny, grained body in my hand, as the one who had created it surely did.
I wonder at the pointed beak, and marvel that it didn’t accidentally fall prey to the knife. A tiny miracle of care.
You can view other writers’ Day 8 contributions via the comments here.