Tag Archive | God

4/29/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Science Fair Project #3027

Science Fair Project #3027

Perhaps only my skin
knows the day
I turned old
as it sagged
with the sadness
of where it’s been
so readjust my legs
to a lifelike position
hold them in place
and my sagging gut
with further supports
let my abdomen rest
where the pins
now cross
but to be of scientific value
each specimen
must be accompanied
by information
include the location
day, month, year of its capture
the name or initials
of the proud collector
and another cemetery
is properly categorized
Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species
God pins me to the ground
labeled in stone
shown off for a prize
he perhaps
won’t win

4/19/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – He Came Wanting

He Came Wanting

Softly woven
in discarded
string and grass,
he hides
his hungry babies,
and I hear him
chattering angrily
through the glass,
yet I have no time,
no stale bread
to toss his way.

My thoughts
are tied
to her clinic,
those time gorging
IV drips,
and no amount
of banging
my head
against the glass
can coax cancer
from her veins
and hand her
that small cracker,
that extra day,
that God refused
to give.

4/15/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Thick

Thick

That feeling
when your foot
is stuck
and you know
you have to sacrifice
your boot
to the mud god
is fleeting
as summer’s heat
dries up
any proof
that you were brave
enough to
slug through
the mire
of yesterday
to find the firm ground
of today.

4/3/2013 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Curling

Curling

If I were clairvoyant
I wouldn’t have to peek
and my pancakes
would all be perfectly browned
without one edge curling
bent out shape
with my indecision.

But it isn’t my fault
for it is God
who messed with my head
tossing and turning
my hair as I slept
checking to see
if I was perfectly
done.

4/1/2013 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Swaying

Swaying

Don’t try to change
my mind
like God changes
the wind
when he finds himself
lying on his stomach
on a lazy summer day
longing for clouds to billow
and twist like earthly balloons
into cotton-candy animals
and dream of far-away days
when all he had to worry about
was forming mud-pies
into imaginary children
who could be his friends
instead of today’s looming
clouds of destruction
that threaten to blow it all
away.

6/24/ 2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Child’s Play

(From Poetic Bloomings prompt:  http://poeticbloomings.com/)

Child’s Play

I have blown my share
of tiny bubbles
sending them drifting off
to space,
yet not one of them
with my breath
could live a second more.

So when God
was done mixing up
the heavens and the earth,
I hope his mother
tenderly kissed his head,
and let him lick the spoon.

5/25/10 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Cuttings

Cuttings

Cuttings

The day heats
my garden green,
overgrown to limpness,
mocking my bow
to God
who must find time
between listening
to my prayers
to rain upon my flowers.

Flowers wither
as my needs grow,
footprints hard in dusty dirt,
walking away
before the sun.

1/16/10 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – I Found a Mystery Egg

Farmville

I Found a Mystery Egg

I am a prisoner
of Farmville,
trapped in walls
of colored bales
so coins and levels
can speed the deed
of harvesting plants,
and trees,
and God help me,
a hundred chickens.

You know my torture,
know my level,
my quest
for the next upgrade.

‘Till log in issues
temporarily stop
harvesting gifts
off my Live Feed.

So Tech Gods
solve the bug
sending farmers swarming
to their diamond dirt,
as the Devil seeds
a greedy need
for a hundred neighbors.

No more.

I have sold my farm,
chicken by chicken,
my voluntary commitment
for a Farmville detox.

I will be a prisoner
no more.

9/05/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Hopscotch

The morning cold
makes me sidewalk hard
and dampness
taps me on my chest
to say it is my turn again.

I’ve tried to beat God
at this game,
but it doesn’t seem
like an even match
when he plays with clouds
and I only hold
a rock in my hand.

Saturday at the Farmer’s Market

Farmer tans are understandable,
a tag team effort with the sun
marking a man for a job well done.

But the white line left on your finger
where you have removed our ring,
lies about your futile effort.

Stop shopping at the open market.
Can we finish the job we started
before we both get burned?

9/03/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sweater Weather

I feel the void of everything
and the sky mimics my soul,
blue and vacant,
and I am one with it.

Then a vapor trail
slicing the empty sky
fills the nothingness
with a cloud not made from God.

I see the plane fly over
lifting you to a new place.
The crack in the sky grows bigger
and I begin to sob.

It is cold enough to change
exhaustion into ice.
I can breathe it here on earth
and cry till I feel empty.