High Expectations

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High Expectations

High in the sky
I sit and spy
I see a unicorn
floating by
as a rabbit
comes to play
they spin
and swirl
and move away.

High in the sky
I sit and spy
only eagles
soaring by
acrobatics
muscular wings
they dip
and dive
and my heart sings.

High in the sky
I sit and spy
expectations
running high
coming here
seeking peace
I feel the planet
loving me
a sweet release.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written for the prompt “Rising Above” and linked with Poets United. With everything going crazy in this world today it’s good to find somewhere to reconnect with nature, to renew ourselves.

Photo found on a Google search: Preikestolen or Prekestolen is a famous tourist attraction in the municipality of Forsand in Rogaland county, Norway. Preikestolen is a steep cliff which rises 604 metres above the Lysefjorden.

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The Gift

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The Gift

Awarded a gift
Between past and future
Concluded at consciousness
Day in and day out-
Existence.

Facing the omnipresent and
Grasping what life
Has in store for us.

Invisible, tasteless and odorless, we
Just need to
Know how to
Live for today.

May we take this gift of
Now, and mark
Ourselves as
Present.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

I wrote an alphabet Acrostic for dVerse~Poets Pub. The artwork is an old animation of mine.

Almost

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Almost

It was about time
relatively close
approximately there
around the last minute
practically here
essentially finished
virtually in effect
close enough to smell
as good as done
all but answered
within an inch
 666666666666666666almost….

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written for the Peninsula Poetry Corner tonight in Menlo Park (found through the MeetUp app.) Prompt is “almost.”

Haiku #12917

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haiku #12917

light as feather
intimate as a lover
the sweetness of life

(c) Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads and shared with Poets United.

We were to take this poem and condense it into something short and sweet. I offer the shortest form possible, senryu.

Sweetness, always

“Why such harsh machinery?
Why, to write down the stuff and people of everyday,
must poems be dressed up in gold,
or in old and fearful stone?

I want verses of felt or feather which scarcely weigh,
mild verses
with the intimacy of beds
where people have loved and dreamed.
I want poems stained
by hands and everydayness.

Verses of pastry which melt
into milk and sugar in the mouth,
air and water to drink,
the bites and kisses of love.
I long for eatable sonnets,
poems of honey and flour.

Vanity keeps prodding us
to lift ourselves skyward
or to make deep and useless
tunnels underground.
So we forget the joyous
love-needs of our bodies.
We forget about pastries.
We are not feeding the world.

In Madras a long time since,
I saw a sugary pyramid,
a tower of confectionery –
one level after another,
and in the construction, rubies,
and other blushing delights,
medieval and yellow.

Someone dirtied his hands
to cook up so much sweetness.

Brother poets from here
and there, from earth and sky,
from Medellin, from Veracruz,
Abyssinia, Antofagasta,
do you know the recipe for honeycombs?

Let’s forget about all that stone.

Let your poetry fill up
the equinoctial pastry shop
our mouths long to devour –
all the children’s mouths
and the poor adults’ also.
Don’t go on without seeing,
relishing, understanding
all these hearts of sugar.

Don’t be afraid of sweetness.

With or without us,
sweetness will go on living
and is infinitely alive,
forever being revived,
for it’s in a man’s mouth,
whether he’s eating or singing,
that sweetness has its place.”

by Pablo Neruda

The Calendar

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The Calendar

The Calendar doesn’t care
what day it is
it’s got so many to choose from
it can afford to lose one.

The calendar doesn’t count
when days go flying by
or care about your age
it simply turns the page.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2016

Written with Poets United and shared with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads.

Face Value

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Face Value

Tolerantly I watch your face
searching for some information
looking for the slightest change
probing for an indication
waiting for the final phase
noting every single line
when your hands point me the way
finally, I have the time.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2015

Shared for the first time from Picturesque Words.