Cake

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Cake

I was told there would be cake
a delicious flavor just for me
yet I grow tired of lingering
I’m crumbling into pieces
my life stale and tasteless.

I was told there would be cake
yet I find no sweet treat today
my kitchen sits spotless awaiting
the glorious gooey sticky mess.
Will I ever find that recipe again?

I was told there would be cake
as the years go by the craving grows
sitting alone at a table set for one
wondering if I’ll be left
holding an empty plate.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Picking a protest sign to write about linking with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads. Divorced twice with no children I still dream of finding that special man to share the rest of my life with. That would take the cake and be sweet indeed.

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Spoken Word

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Spoken Word

Performed live for a hungry crowd
poetry spoken, read aloud
written words turned into sound
voices raised in prose astound.

Rhymes and stories rein sublime
my heart is beating overtime
I struggle to bring my muse alive
by spoken words that I provide.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

A blast from the past about how I felt reading my poetry to other people. The animation is from my photographs of the Bay Trail.

A Writer’s Life

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A Writer’s Life

A writer’s life for me
there’s nothing I’d rather be
playing with words is fun
reading out loud when I’m done
bringing my muse out to play
and writing this poem today.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

Different As Night And Day

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Different As Night And Day

All the good and bad they weathered
night and daytime ruled together
then one day they had a fight
the moon got mad and shined too bright
it pushed the sun out of the way
and then decided to steal the day.

The jealous sun its anger bright
took back the daytime from the night
the Gods stepped in to end this fight
and straightened out this perilous plight
the moon felt sad the sun was lost
the sun felt bad that lines were crossed.

Now night and day ruled peacefully
while dusk and dawn meet frequently
the stars doth shine until the day
comes sauntering back to get its way
sun and moon now regulated
for all time they’re separated.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

A blast from the past shared with my friends at Poets United. I originally wrote this for a friend, Cat whom I’ve known online for over 10 years, she likes these kinds of fantasies.

Flying

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Flying

Flying
where am I?

I am traveling by your side
the sun acting as our guide
my emotions burning bright
like a scarlet sunset might
I felt lost behind this face
’till we leaped into this space
the clouds parted ways for me
now my vision’s clear, I see.

Flying
where am I?

Together
now we fly.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written with Saturdays Image Write.

The Little Things

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The Little Things

I came upon a pristine stream
clean and lined with rocks beneath
I smelled the fertile earth around
it brought to me a deep relief.

I sat a spell to ruminate
so hypnotized by water such
I spied a butterfly amused
by something it was trying to touch.

Noticing a dazzling light
a trace of colors seemed to mock
a crystal necklace beckoned me
the leather strap caught on a rock.

Chasing down that tiny sun
I wondered how it came to be
my fingers on the surface brushed
I then had an epiphany.

Memories intact I left it there
for other creatures wandering
a secret between them and me
for life’s made up of little things.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

I wrote this for the prompt at Toads and at the same time, about this image. Please join me in writing for an image every Saturday starting this weekend (the 4th). You can find the prompt here at the Saturday’s Image Write link or go directly to the Blogger site where it’s being hosted. Saturday’s Image Write.

Written for Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads. Sometimes you must look beyond the obvious to see the whole picture.

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