Monday, November 9, 2020

Her Thing.






The dog lay on the grass on her back. She would groan and moan and wriggle and rub ---and make 'Wookie' noises. These were all noises to show--- she was happy in the sun, she was happy in the light, and she was happy in the fresh air. Happy, groaning noises of delight she made, as she wriggled back and forth, stretching herself out from top to bottom like the letter 'S.'  Swoosh swoosh, grunt grunt, she made music. How did I not know this was her thing? 







Monday, October 12, 2020

Revisiting





No More

 

Don’t want to hang ’round these ghosts no more

as they moan and wander and pace this ol’ floor.

Don’t want to hang ’round the spirits of past, as

they linger and promise things that don’t last.

 

They slink through the hollow,

they hang at the door

their faces so sullen

that they lie on the floor.

They push wine and pastries

but deliver spoilt food and mush-

they coax me to stay

sitting alone on my tush

not lifting a pen

nor writing a stroke

and behind my back

they chide me, “Slow-poke.”

“L-a-z-y,” they say…

“She won’t make the cut.”

“Let’s hang ‘round until

she’s stuck deep in this rut.”

They mutter and clamor and they raise such a stink,

telling me “Consider our feelings...”

that I must “Stay put,” or “They’re leaving!”

 

Won’t listen to their chastisements—no, not even one

as they dangle carrots that vanish; that leave me undone.  

"You could have been 'this…'” or “You’re over the hill.”

“Look over there--” “Now, try, if you will…”

“You won’t make the day,” “You haven’t come far,”

“You’ve frittered your chances and fallen short of the bar.” 

 

Their obvious content at my own demise

should cause me to act out with an upheaval--

to shake them right off like the weevils they are!

 

These spirits that plague me are never content

’cept to harp on my obvious faults and my failings

leaving me on the ropes and the railings.

They weigh me down with concern for my plight,

yet they secretly cheer when I’m drifting…

poking holes in my sails all the time when

my spirit is lifting.  


©K Annie Powell




 

 


 

 

 












Monday, April 20, 2020

Monday, March 16, 2020

Just clowning around.

                                                                                          Acrylic on Canvas, "Wee Clown."






Her Thing.

The dog lay on the grass on her back. She would groan and moan and wriggle and rub ---and make 'Wookie ' noises. These were all nois...