Rhena Writes

Tag: Poem

  • Rhena, more than this poem.

    Daily writing prompt
    If humans had taglines, what would yours be?
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    Rhena, human being being human.

    Rhena, no-one’s burden, no one’s savior.

    Rhena, good to the last drop.

    Rhena, me, myself, and I.

    Just Rhena it.

    Rhena, returning to myself.

    Rhena, creator, survivor, learner, lucid dreamer.

    Rhena, Queen.

    Rhena never goes out of style.

    Rhena, minding my own business.

    Have it the Rhena way.

    Rhena, I am here, like a good Rhena.

    Rhena, being strange.

    The slowest picker upper, Rhena.

    A Rhena is forever.

    Think Rhena.

    Rhena is it.

    The Rhena-est place on Earth.

    Because Rhena is worth it.

    Rhena gives me wings.

    Rhena, I’m doing my very best.

    The ultimate Rhena machine.

    I’m in Rhena’s hands.

    Rhena runs on Rhena.

    The best a Rhena can get.

    Rhena, I can hear me now.

    Rhena, always suffering.

    Rhena, believer.

    Rhena, more than a tag line.

    *********************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Starve Fear. Feed Joy. (A story/ prose poem sort of a thing.)

    Daily writing prompt
    What fears have you overcome and how?
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    Fear is a hungry beast. I find it’s overly easy to feed its gaping maw. What do I mean by that? I mean that the society and culture that I live within is a veritable buffet of delights for fear to endlessly consume. Fear, in its turn, has a bottomless stomach and is always ready to grab a clean plate and begin its trip through the hot bar. And the cold one too.

    I’ll feed it unnecessary purchases of bits and bobs I’ve seen advertised as being able to make me happier, prettier, younger, even wealthier. Fear will consume them all. And I? No happier, no prettier, no younger and perhaps a little bit poorer. And still Fear’s belly rumbles with hunger, demanding ever more time, attention, quick fixes, superficial dalliances into this and that. “You’re missing out,” he whispers into my jewel-laden ear. And I succumb. And still he devours more.

    Fear holds my attention with its adrenaline and thrills, its glitter and shine, its shadows and mirrors. Caught up in the echantment of his own illusions, he pulls back a curtain to reveal his greatest weapon: death.

    But, alas, Fear has overplayed his hand. For Death reminds us, “I’ll meet all of you regardless of how you spend your time. You’d do just as well to invite Fear into your heart as you would with his twin, Joy. It’s all the same to me.”

    And so I pass Joy a clean plate from the buffet of earthly delights: a long stretch, a deep breath, the breeze shifting the juniper branches, a sip of clean water. And together we eat our fill. And then some.

    ********************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • All the things that cannot be named.

    Daily writing prompt
    If you could have something named after you, what would it be?
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    If I could have something named after me, it would be all the things that we do not have names for, the things we cannot name.

    When your friend asks, “How are you?” and you feel a mixture of contentment lined with a soupçon of ennui and something else which you eludes you, you will say, “Rhena” and your friend will know.

    And when your friend is at a loss for how to console you, comfort you, and give you space, she will say, “Rhena” and you will know.

    When put your earbuds in, you will say, “Hey Siri, play Rhena,” she will play the music you need to hear and it will always be Nina Simone or Lauryn Hill or Salt-n-Pepa or Tracy Chapman or Aretha Franklin or or or or…

    When you see a man pushing his baby in a stroller at a great distance and want to shout “Thank you for bringing your baby out on this beautiful day. I was feeling a little down and then I saw her beautiful black hair, like ravens feathers on that sweet head bobbling on top of her neck while she peered around, trying to take in all the world with her new eyes and isn’t God good?” but he is too far and there isn’t enough time you will whisper “Rhena” and he will know. And he will whisper “Rhena” and you will know that yes, God is good.

    And when you cannot choose what to eat for dinner, you will say, “Rhena” and the server will nod, knowingly.

    And when you want someone to see you but you are so, so tired of speaking and explaining and justifying, you will say, “Rhena” and they will know.

    Until all the people say,

    Rhena!

    Rhena?

    Rhena. Rhena. Rhena.

    rhenarhenarhenarhenarhena.

    Until there comes a day when there is no longer need

    to speak my name.

  • My Secret Skill: A Prose Poem

    Daily writing prompt
    What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?
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    A secret skill or ability I wish I had is to be able to just chill the eff out. No. That’s not it. I wish I could conjure joy on command. No. That’s not it either. I wish I could make a decision. Decisiveness. That’s it.

    No. I wish I could write spells. I wish I had been cataloguing spells with a feather quill in a massive leather-bound book with deckle edged paper in elegant script so that I could open the pages and recite one appropriate to any occasion. No that’s not it either.

    I wish I could fly. No. I’m afraid of heights. I’d like to be able to teleport. Fade into pixels and reappear somewhere else. Maybe even someone else. No. I love myself too much for that.

    I wish I could cure disease. Yes. That’s the one.

    Or that flowers bloomed in my footprints: forsythia and bluebells and hyacinths and all the ones, like plumeria, that I cannot name but remind me earth is my home.

    Spout fire from my mouth and hands. Eyes too. Laser beams.

    I wish for super strength so that I could bend the arc of history more quickly towards justice.

    I would like the ability to style my outfit everyday for both comfort and looks. So that I could walk down the street to a chorus of, “Who’s that?” and “damn!”

    I would like to be able to keep a neat and tidy email account, brew the perfect cup of coffee but just for the smell, extend an invitation.

    I wish I could crochet a blanket or two. Wrap you, perfect stranger, up in its softness on days like these cold and rainy ones.

    I would like my secret ability to be trust. Or maybe trustworthiness.

    I’d like to win the attention of elves so that I can lay my tools and materials out before going to bed and in the morning, a perfect pair of shoes appear in their place.

    I would like to be able to quiet the voices, to slay the dragons, to hold and keep faith, to have the right words.

    I would like to be present to each moment. And mostly to this one. Yes. That’s it. That’s the one.

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  • The Next 100 Seconds (A prose poem)

    (after Susie Q. Smith)

    Do not brace yourself. In the bracing, there is hesitation, and in the hesitation, there is doubt. There is no room for doubt here. Begin counting as soon as you’ve turned the handle all the way to cold. You will still have one or two seconds of warm water but this isn’t cheating because it’s not; this is your shower. Turn your back to the stream of water. Cross your arms over your chest, if they aren’t already there. First will come the gooseflesh and then the hitch in your breath (or maybe it’s the other way around; the fine details of sequence have little meaning at this point). Your breath will come in sobs. Allow them: these forceful diaphragm kicks. Your lungs are the seat of your grief, which your breath might want to kick around, shake up, expel every so often.

    Remember to keep counting. Begin to move from side to side, allowing the water to cascade over each shoulder. You can think of this as a warm up if that doesn’t somehow seem like a cruel joke. Gradually increase your movements. Soon you will be rotating your whole body under the stream of water. 

    Keep counting. You’ve been here before. Allow the memories of every other time you’ve been a bad-ass rise. That time you birthed a ten and a half pound baby. That time you said, “no” without explanation. That time you did not fill the awkward silence. That time you asked for help after the other time you asked for help and no one offered. That time you birthed a nine and a half pound baby. That time you said, “I don’t like that.” The time you lied and, in lying, remained true to yourself. That time you didn’t feel like smiling and so didn’t. Those times you smiled anyway and extended yourself grace later. That time you showed up to what everyone else knew was a gunfight and you didn’t even have a knife and you stayed anyway. That time you walked away. 

    Keep counting. You’re almost at the end. You can almost hear your Nordic forbear’s proud backslaps. Perhaps they even nod towards their tropical counterparts, who also value cold water, if not the displays of affirmation. No matter. You are whole. 

    Or skip the cold water. Read a poem instead. Read this poem instead. Keep counting. Look back up the page. How far you’ve come. A whole handswidth. Keep counting. Reach 100. Write a poem.