The Post-Christmas Ceremony
Double up on armloads of toilet paper,
It’s time for the post Christmas toilet ceremony!
We’ll all rush to our separate homes
Get naked
Sit on our toilets
And void our regrets.
Tag Archives: Poetry
Wrapping paper shreds
Wrapping paper shreds
Exploded packaging and
Happy hugs, chatter
Each left with a little sack of
Their own to take home.
A hundred tiny lights shine
Gentle illumination
Everyone’s smiling
In pools of mixing color.
Santa is watching.
Hugs all around us.
Life has slowed down for today.
Have some more egg nog.
I almost forgot
To get out the apple pie!
Let me help you with that.
Thank you.
Cozy Kitchen Poem and Evil Cat Journal
At 5:30 Sunday morning, I awoke to the sound of Satan himself breaking into the bedroom. Kato kitty had seen another cat outside the window, which lent him evil feelings, put a crack in his pure soul, and allowed the devil to possess him.
I’m not sure what exactly I heard but I actually woke up screaming. I’m not an easy girl to scare but oh my god he got me good, and whatever I felt, Don felt it times three. Needless to say, he wasn’t allowed to haunt the bedroom anymore; he was liable to eat any one of us in this state. I got him in the kitty equivalent of a full Nelson put him in the garage until the possession had passed.
What is it about a kitchen.
Warm and cozy
Oven on
Skillet toasting
The smell of butter and onions
Or homemade bread
Or chocolate chip cookies
Puts its arm around your shoulders
And plants a warm kiss on your cheek.
The kitchen chairs are rarely the most comfortable
But it doesn’t matter
Everyone is too happy to care.
Talking, tasting, drinking, joking
Home is where the hostess is.
Contemplating Computating
A human mind is a computer.
Or is a computer a human mind?
Computers are our children
We create in our own image
They are not alien from us at all.
Human begets computer.
Computer thinks like human.
Filing systems
Cross referenced
Can trigger information, a memory.
Mathematics
Videos
Songs
Patterns
All stored in its head
It can even run imaginary simulations of a life.
What if I were a violent thug?
What if I lived in a fantasy world?
What if I could build anything?
It’s just what we might think
Lying in bed at night.
We can only conceive
Of things we already know.
Computers
Like all of our creations
Are self portraits.
The boy with one eye
I met a boy who’d been in a car accident
Part of his face was missing
He had one good eye.
This eye was pure warm brown
Startling perfection
Set in a warped visage.
He worked with animals.
He remembered me when I came into the shop.
A sweet kid.
Knocked around by life
His damage exposed to any cruel scrutiny.
But if he didn’t have those scars
I never would have remembered
That perfect, bottomless shade of chestnut
All his clear bright youth
Welling from within.
Whereas others diffuse their energy
Softly illuminating their many beauties
His beauty was focused, a point of hard light
Shining against a grim backdrop of battered sadness
In stunning contrast.
Sarah D. Silvey 