Society’s Questionable Females

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

While the town gossips…

 

Some women are daring and too intriguing to be

Called normal;

Rather these females are often called insane

By many respectable citizens,

Their eyes will always reveal their old fire

In their old age.

They remember doing things differently

Than others and talk about their past

Experiences with laughter and mystic.

Stories about cutting out black hearts

Instead of red ones on that romantic

Holiday in February,

Or rescuing an injured animal along

The backroads,

Or taking on guys

with a speedy car race,

Or daring to follow a dream and

Leave town to start a new life

With a tough outspoken man

That everyone else has despised

But her,

It felt like true love, but,

Instead, it became nothing

Behind his lingering smoke

Screen, except, her

Heartache and misery that follows

Along forever inside her head,

It is like a deep dark lake

With ice glazing it.

These tough women let it go,

Eventually,

Because they are like Amelia Earhart,

They scrape their slates clean and pristine,

And wade to the other side

Through knee-deep mud,

Black waters turn to clear blue

Even though it is hard to reach the bottom

They keep going avoiding the dangerous rocks

And not letting the falling snow stop them,

In their future, they reach a spectacular place

Where they join others to watch

The waxing moon rise above stars the size

Of the smallest planets,

Because they never fall permanently.

Despite their hardships in life,

It is the reason for their whole trip,

This experience of theirs–unique to them,

During their careers where some of them

Wear pressed suits and shiny baubles.

Their magnificent stars are still

Overhead while others watch,

The glorious moon follows them,

Until death, no matter how much

They show-off or push their adrenaline

They remain, foolish humans, in some peoples’

Eyes.

Eventually, something kills them,

Ending their sparkling dreams and these

Are choked to nothing but an echo

In someone’s memory. –J. E. Cook © 2017

 

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Common White Girl

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

In the minds of others…

In the United States,

The overall consensus

Believes

That a common white female

Is someone that

Goes to Starbucks regularly,

In Uggs and leggings very autumn,

As she talks into her iPhone after

Posting multiple selfies on Instagram

When she is finished with her perfect

Hair and layered makeup

After a long bubble soak in bath & body

scents,

And viewing her favorite movie, Mean Girls.

Then, she goes home to put on

Her black riding boots along with her lacy pink sports

Bra that she purchased at Victoria Secret

While shopping with her chic besties.

 

She blows out her frosted cranberry candles

As she Snap chats about her shopping

Encounters with her other group of

Acquaintances,

The ones with Vera Bradley purses, Nike shorts,

And North Face jackets.

 

Putting on some fake hipster eyeglasses,

She snaps another selfie to post,

This time on Twitter,

Where her last post was about her

Customized black leather jacket

Complete with Harley emblems,

She is obsessed with her new iPad.

 

Life as her,

Is so “I can’t even… imagine.”

  –J. E. Cook ©2017

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Daily readings in Poetry~

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Today, I read some reviews of my poetry and revised one, too. I came across one poem I would like to share here because it is so wonderful and full of insight into another character invented in someone else’s writing. 

This poem is by Doodley,

If every journey has an ending,
And every story has a start,
Would thy thoughts remain unbending,
That the Tin Man once had a heart?

That he lived a life of leisure,
In the forests of Oz forevermore,
Where the chipmunks frolicked in pleasure,
Upon evergreen seas of wood lawn floor.

Where the canopies teemed with birdsong,
And cicadas serenaded the night,
And the Lunar Queen on velvet throne,
Bathed the land in pearly light.

Tangerine beams of Sun’s contentment,
Polished his soul to silver sheen,
And the mist of disenchantment,
In his life, was nowhere to be seen.

And he reveled in joyous solitude,
In his home deep in the woods,
Where his apple orchard gave gratitude,
With unending ripened goods.

Then one glorious tranquil morn,
In the depths of florescent Spring,
Was his covert nurturing faith reborn,
When he heard the voice of an Angel sing.

For there beneath an apple tree,
Stood an emblem of Love divine,
Such a beauteous Nymph as there could be
Caressing the fruits upon its vine.

With cascading falls of golden locks,
And eyes a misterium of onyx hue,
She sang and whirled to emerging flocks,
That flew down to rest from the azure blue.

In the silent whoosh of Cupid’s rush,
There amidst the scores of Turtle Dove,
Their gaze did meet through crimson blush,
And they fell to depths of torrid Love.

And there amongst the swelling throng,
They twirled together entwined as one,
As Nature’s bards took up the song,
And the Lunar Queen embraced her Sun.

As daylight wilted to twilight gloam,
And starlight shyly twinkled through,
He guided her to his simple home,
Where Life and Love was born anew.

Through the fertility of the Springtime,
And all through the Summer’s swell,
Did their heart’s converse in Love’s rhyme,
In wondrous bliss did they both dwell.

But when Old Man Autumn in rustic fawn,
Encroached the serenity of this place,
Had the creeping tendrils of restless dawn,
Shone ill light upon their Love’s solace.

For the Wood Nymph had ambition,
She was no patient Eremite,
And she rebelled in true sedition,
Lured by the Emerald City’s bright.

One night under veiled star-fall,
While in dreaming did the Tin Man lay,
Did the Wood Nymph pack her belongings all,
And stole his radiant heart away.

And when he awoke to sunlight stream,
That shimmered his glossy face,
His world collapsed to nightmare dream,
She had disappeared without a trace.

He trawled through the woods in panic,
Let loose cries and desperate pleas,
That reverberated fleetingly manic,
On the gossiping Autumn breeze.

When his calls echoed in silence,
And stirred no sleeping ghost,
He lapsed into despairing violence,
For loss of things he loved the most.

He wailed in tormented grieving,
Like a baying Hound of Hell,
And struck his chest a-heaving,
His now heartless empty shell.

Then his trusty axe he took to hand,
And Cut! And Chopped! And Sliced!,
Decimating his orchard from the land,
In a whirlwind of rage and vice!

When his madness had abated,
He stood alone under gleaming sky,
As sorrow’s waves invaded,
On the breath of his longing sigh.

With his soul now torn asunder,
And with his hope ground into dust,
He hearkened to the distant thunder,
Then cried himself to rust.

All the forest joined to mourn him,
Shed their leaves in solemn prayer,
As the Solar King dialed down to dim,
In respect for the Life lost there.

And the passing days did wither,
Under first frost of Winter’s kiss,
Delayed by the Ice Queen’s dither,
In her fear of discourteous remiss.

And the Tin Man remained there frozen,
Through all time and Love’s decay,
‘Till a young girl and Scarecrow chosen,
Walked the Yellow Brick Road his way.

I admired his creative vision of this character inside his words…I also thought about his review about one of my poems, and how he seemed to want more information on my character in my poem because she was the POV inside it.

Therefore, I revisited it. I decided I must revise it and make it more complete in structure and thoughts.

Here it is after being revised:

Molly’s Musings

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Daydreaming and thinking about the time and space of the past… 

Gazing out at the faraway islands,

She imagines the handsome faces

The British killed,

Buried here, leaving behind young widows,

To assess the ocean alone.

 

Her eye on one point on the horizon

As she thinks about reckless pirates

going to the Indies

Or Charles Town.

 

Her mind on

The sandy shoals between Beaufort,

And the Atlantic waters,

She once visited a place on Bogue Island,

That had a decaying fort,

And an inlet where old ships came to visit

frequently,

They were rumored to be the protection

Against Indian bandits,

The army camping there never completed

The southern walls,

Musket balls could be

lingering in the dirt,

Along with buried wreckage,

Summer is ending,

And she often thinks about the dead

regiment in

The fall,

As her garden dies,

What haunts this land

are the lingering ghosts

Of those men and boys that left Beaufort,

Promising letters to their waiting ladies,

However,

All they became were moving targets

for the British invasion

As their muskets fired,

Local uniforms were covered in crimson stains,

Dark holes and charred souls linger

In old passageways,

Their ladies long dead,

After sleepless nights thinking

Deeply about their lost kisses.

 

She doesn’t like loving these trapped

ghosts

Anymore,

As she stands at her open door

Watching the glint of the rising moon

On her moving sea in front of her.

 

She would rather think of a tranquil location

In sunny Beaufort,

Where a meadow is filled with grazing cows

and full

Pecan trees. Green apples are brought to them,

As a bluebird

Moves from branch to branch

Above the herd,

And the pecans fall and fill the open air.

 

Now she sits on her porch swing,

Thinking of a studious painter, she loves

Living in New Bern,

Where he works on detailed miniatures and his

Art will be moved weekly

and arrive in distant places,

She longs to pose for him again soon.

 

Her knees draw up,

And she twists her hair slowly

Thinking about him and his socked feet

Smiling at her as he hands over

A little painting of her.

 

Her secret treasure, in an ivory frame

And the size of a thumbnail

Her having a picnic with him,

Born from a hastily drawn sketch in ink,

Now, vibrant in flowing oils,

She leaves 1782 behind with a fleeting

Thought about a lost letter

She discovered yesterday morning

While cleaning the crowded attic,

She Imagined the smell of it,

As her eyes read,

About somewhere inland,

And a Sunday camp filled with pain

Over lost cousins,

And a sweetheart missed with

Hopeful desires,

The miles of unknown

Pressing into her mind

A whistle of a Cherokee arrow

Breaking the silence

Of the frontier there inside

Her daydream,

Would the island slaves solve anything

With the Lord’s prayer?

The gilded-edge scene is buried

In her thoughts

As she watches their sun disappear

Leaving the colors of her fall behind to

Hide in the shadows of the casting

Boughs among the flowing hills

Beyond the seas and distant shores.–J.E. Cook ©2017

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The Worst didn’t Happen because of Him

To have his hand by me for comfort and safeness

After a day of thinking about the worst

And now happy that it didn’t happen

To Us,

His solid body next to mine,

As I think about how crazy it was to imagine

The worst,

Embarrassed by it,

However, a mistake is

What happens when I am preoccupied

By life,

Distracted and not looking at the details.

Accidents are accidents—not on purpose.

Closer to him now,

My body fits his shape well,

The residual effects are now gone

Because of him. –J. E. Cook (C)2017

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Musings on a Sunday morning~

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Opportunity or Fantasy

When something ends a bit badly,

It isn’t always a mistake,

Sometimes, we are reckless with our lives

And don’t think things through enough

Before acting upon our thoughts,

We often must pick through a lot

Of fool’s gold before a rare diamond is

Revealed. —J. E. Cook ©2017

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Bounty in the Countryside

 

Driving past the sage colored pastures

With cows gently grazing on the bounty,

Puffs of cotton clouds fill the pastel blue

Skies,

Old stone houses of varying sizes

Create a magical neighborhood among this

Countryside area of farmland,

One guest cottage with its own little

Garden patch calls to me,

It is quite a distance from the main house

On this farm,

Entering the cozy front room through

the turquoise door,

The hardwood floors shine back at me,

Light streams through the big window across

From the stone fireplace,

I quickly walk through and take in the cozy

Spaces

as I approach the back door,

And go out to see the flowering apple trees

The vibrant leaves fluttering in the breeze,

One picnic table by a small goldfish pond

And a dog napping in the sun,

I hear the murmur of the cows in the distance

As I am greeted with a basket of cheese, wine,

French bread and tart berries gave to me

By a familiar woman in white

with a quilt over one

Arm,

She hands the nurturing gift to me as she puts

The worn quilt over the rough boards on the tabletop,

The clouds seem to be following her to me,

we take our seats across from each other

And unpack the bounty in unison

to enjoy together,

In the afternoon sun with touches of shade

Now and then,

The hint of what will come causes us to toast

To this beautiful day on the farm.  J. E. Cook ©2017

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What are the ridiculous myths in life?

 

Philosophy teachers lecturing about Plato to us

In college,

Believing that every person on Earth has

Another half, they must find to complete

them,

And they will fulfill all the needs of each other

After they fuse together to become one unit

Of love and happily ever after,

sharing

Vows to cherish until they part because death

Has arrived,

But never is a long time to consider

And vow to each other with promises to keep

attached

Until one dies.   J. E. Cook ©2017

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The Little Things and more

On a green metal bench, outside

Our favorite ice cream spot

We watch the dogwoods dance

In the breeze off the lake,

The sky is bursting with their pink

and

White petals

Reminding me of the delicate

Frosted flowers on the cupcakes

Across the street designed

By a young baker,

The smells in the air

Around us are intoxicating

And the blooms

Become confetti on the sidewalks

My cone contains sweet caramel

That is sex on my tongue

As I lick it,

A touch of sea salt and

Sprinkle of pecan nuts,

A swirl of whipped cream

And a shiny cherry on top,

What else would one want

While they watch the skies

With their favorite love

And forget all the foreign thoughts.

 

Being with the man of your dreams

Is always wonderful

Even without these added pleasures

His curly hair at his neckline

As his sudden smile appears

When he watches the ice cream

Drip onto my lap.

His presence is appreciated

And his eye contact

Makes me blush

My shoulders ache for his touch.

A hug that brings me in so

Close right before his lips

Caress mine. –J. E. Cook ©2017

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Remembering what You were like

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With me, you were often a different person…

 

Curled inside the new

quilt your mother made us

Feeling the warmth, it provides me

I love that feeling of the cool denim hugging

My naked body,

The blue lining keeping in the inner heat,

Our wedding anniversary of one year has

Arrived and gone,

You have been away for a while on business

In New Orleans,

I missed you so much,

But your phone calls kept me grounded

Here

I shiver and pick at a loose thread hanging

From the quilt’s corner.

You join me under it and many others

like it,

Glad to have you back inside with me,

I cuddle close to your muscled chest

Warm suntanned skin, as fresh balsam scents

with vanilla

are mixed into our shared air,

I rise to kiss your sultry closed mouth,

Our lovemaking begins,

A pin in the fabric pricks my tender skin

Along my inner arm,

I’m snagged by it and a trail of red

Smears me as I move with you,

This not being the first time your mother

Forgot a pin or lost one,

Your lips touch the wounded spot

And everything is better and forgotten

As you keep kissing my skin

Moving upward

To my breasts and lingering there

For several moments,

I’m drowning in your passion,

A devotion that I never considered

An accident,

It was what I once wished for

However, the price became too high

And it had so many strings attached to it,

Ones that were hidden and often dormant

Until they were unleashed by something

Unexpected and unwanted. –J. E. Cook ©2017

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Springer Spaniels instead of Chocolates

 

A Story by Josie Cook

 

 

It’s a cold February afternoon. There are tiny crystal snowflakes suspended in the frigid air. Many residents are thinking about Valentine’s Day gifts. Amelia is in her large dainty pink bedroom contemplating the big Victorian across the street called the Tabor House as the sun reflects off its snow-covered cupola. Looking out her window, she can view the corner of Commerce Street and Bluebird Crossing. As Amelia does this, she observes her girlfriend, Georgia sitting on her enclosed front porch. Her auburn hair is shimmering with a golden glow encircling her head as she reads from a big book in her lap. Georgia’s image makes Amelia think of sun-kissed berry. A tiny puppy is dozing against her left side on the white wicker settee. Georgia’s calico cat named Millie is sleeping against her right side. This intriguing glimpse of Georgia fascinates Amelia. She moves closer to her window. Amelia knows that Georgia’s father suffers from numerous allergies every spring.  Dogs are one of the things on his long list to avoid. Millie is not permitted inside their house. The tiny black and white puppy will need care around the clock at this stage. Amelia thinks Georgia should keep the puppy indoors, or how will it survive?

 

Amelia gazes at her own face in her mirror. Her hair is smooth like corn silk, not one strand out of place. She heads down the curved stairwell. Grabbing her quilted coat from the hall closet along with her fur-lined mittens, Amelia watches for her mom as she puts on her winter outerwear.  Amelia opens the front door and she goes out to sit on their front porch swing. Still thinking about the puppy and Georgia, she glances their way as Georgia reaches over to pick up the little pup. She cradles it in both arms, as Millie wakes and stretches into an arch. The cat backs away quickly. Millie jumps up into the windowsill, and she curls up into a ball. Amelia decides to visit them and see what is up with the new arrival.

Amelia knocks on the porch door as she peers through the glass. Georgia smiles. She comes over to open the door with the puppy still cradled in her arms.

“Georgia, where did you get that cute puppy?”  Amelia asks with a cheerful smile spreading across her freckled face.

“Aunt Patsy gave him to me as an early gift for Valentine’s Day since daddy is a long business trip. He doesn’t know about him yet.” Georgia giggles as she sits back down letting the puppy rest in her lap.

“Won’t he be furious when he finds out?”

Amelia sits down beside Georgia. She strokes the puppy’s fur. Millie doesn’t seem to care at all about them. The cat dozes in the sun’s rays coming through the windowpanes.

“Mom says she will take care of it. Whatever that means…” Georgia rolls her eyes at Amelia with a smirk appearing on her face.

Amelia looks over at Georgia, she pauses, “Patsy is your father’s sister, so maybe that is what your mom means…” Amelia whispers to Georgia as if she is afraid that the girl’s mother will overhear them.

Amelia continues thinking about how lucky Georgia is to have two pets when she has none. Her black bunny that she named Bell died last winter.  Her parents don’t want her to have another pet because they live in town. Amelia’s parents think she should be content to share a pony with her younger cousin, Charity. She lives in the country. Amelia doesn’t get to ride the pinto pony as often as her younger cousin does because their farm is a good hour and a half outside of the city limits.

“Mom says dad will get used to the idea of having a dog around.” Georgia picks the pup up and hands it to Amelia to hold for a while.

“I just love how his hair is all wavy.  He has such blue eyes when he opens them. Gosh, Georgia I would love to have a puppy like him.”

“My aunt has two more puppies to find homes for since she is only keeping their mother. Maybe, you could ask your parents if you could have one, too.”

Georgia glances at Millie. She gets up to catch her cat. Georgia brings Millie over and sits down by Amelia and the puppy.

Amelia notices that Millie is purring loudly and rubbing all over Georgia. She feels a little sorry for the cat because she must share Georgia now.

“Georgia, do you think Millie is going to feel left out if you spend a lot of time with your new puppy? After all, he is going inside with you and she must stay on the porch. It’s not that warm out here at night.”

“No, he stays in our garage.  I check on him every two hours. Mom says he’ll be fine. He has a new bed with his toys and plenty of food.” Georgia tells her.

“But, the garage is where your dad works on his car on the weekends. I bet he won’t like having this puppy out there when he is polishing his red Camaro for the next car show at the park.”

“I really don’t know what he’ll say. I named him Freckles because he has all these little black spots on his face.”

“What do the other puppies look like?”  Amelia asks as she stares at the pup’s face.

“One is almost all white with some big black spots on his belly and around each eye. The only female has small white spots all over her tan body. All of them have these beautiful blue eyes and long wavy hair. But, my aunt says, their eyes may turn brown later.”

“I’m going to ask my mom if I can have one for Valentine’s Day!  Before they’re all gone.” Getting up quickly, Amelia hands Georgia her pup.

Amelia pauses before crossing the street, as a car passes by. She can’t wait to get her own puppy. As Amelia reaches her porch, her mother comes out the front door.

“Where have you been? I was calling up the stairway for you. I need to go to the grocery for some milk and bread before it snows again.”

“I was visiting Georgia. She has the cutest puppy! Can I have one too? For Valentine’s Day?” Amelia watches her mom’s face for clues to what she might say about a puppy.

Her mother eyes Amelia closely. “I’m not the one to ask about that and you know it. When your father gets in this evening, you can ask him.”

“Oh, mom. Why does he always make all the important decisions? You could tell him the puppy is a gift for me. Please. Don’t make me wait on him—the pups might be gone by then.”

“Amelia, please just get inside the car. We need to get back so I can start dinner on time. Your father works out in the weather all day. He needs a hot meal on time.”

Amelia walks to the drive and she gets inside as her mother starts their old rusty Chevy. As they cruise down the street to the stop sign, Amelia waves at Georgia. During the ride to the store, she daydreams about waking up to a puppy licking her in the face every morning.

Arriving back home with several bags of food and cleaning supplies, Amelia and her mother unload the trunk. Amelia can’t see across the street now because is it dark. She wonders if Georgia asked her aunt about the remaining pups and if there are any still available.

In the kitchen, Amelia’s mom is singing as she cooks dinner. Amelia is at the table doing her math homework. She is having a hard time doing her story problems because she keeps thinking about puppies. The back door opens and in walks, her father covered in tiny snowflakes. His dark coat moist from the snow. He pulls off his black boots at the door along with his work gloves.

“Daddy, I have something important to ask you. Can I get a puppy for Valentine’s day?”

Her father looks up from tucking his wool socks into his boots. His eyes go to the cook stove where her mom is looking at her cookbook on the counter. Her fingers are busy moving down the pages checking the ingredients for making seasoned dumplings. She turns away from them and she walks to the sink to run water as Amelia goes to her father’s side. Amelia watches his face as she waits for his answer that seems to never come out of his mouth.

“Did you hear me? Can I have a puppy?”

“A dog is a big commitment. I’m not sure you’re ready for that kind of responsibility.”

Her mother turns around to stare at them. Then, she starts mixing up the dumplings. Amelia waits for them to say something else. However, her father walks into the living room and turns on the TV. His favorite sitcom is on and he doesn’t like to be interrupted as he watches each episode. He tries to figure out the answers to the mystery quest taking place before it is solved.

“You better finish your math before dinner.”

Frowning at her mother, Amelia picks up her pencil with worn eraser. She tries to focus on the last story problem on the page. There’s a knock on the front door. Amelia peeks around the doorframe as her father answers it.

“Hello, Mr. Gilbert. May I step inside? The wind is picking up and I’m freezing.”

Amelia sees a teenage boy holding a box wrapped in pink foil paper. He is holding the box closely to his body. His hat is covered in snow as well as his wool coat. A scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Of course, come on inside. Our dinner is about ready. You can join us if you like.”

“Oh, no. Just came to drop off your package. Mom is waiting in the car for me and my father expects me to help him with the feeding soon.” The young man stays on the tile by the door waiting for someone to come to him.

“So, nice that you came over this evening with this weather. We could’ve waited until in the morning to receive it.” Her father takes the box and hands the teenage boy some cash.

“Well, I better get going. Thanks again, Mr. Gilbert.” The boy turns to leave.

“I’m sure this will work fine and be safe on the road home.” After the boy nods to him. Her father shuts the door tightly.

“Amelia, come here. I wanted to wait until morning since Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. But, I don’t think this can be delayed.”

Amelia walks into the living room to stand beside her father as her mother joins them. She takes a seat on their couch with a dish towel still in her hands. Amelia looks up at her father. He hands her the pink box. It feels heavy and bit off balance. Amelia joins her mother on the couch as her father takes a seat in his recliner near the fireplace.

“Darling, maybe you should grab your camera and snap of picture of Amelia as she opens her early gift. Don’t feel left out, I have yours arriving in the morning.”

Amelia’s mother rises and she goes to retrieve her pocket camera from their bedroom where it is always lying on the bookshelf. The box seems to move a little on Amelia’s lap. She holds it tighter until her mother returns to the room.

“Okay, Amelia. I’m ready. Go ahead and unwrap your gift.”

Clunk. The box hits the carpet. Then, it rolls a couple of times. There’s low whine from inside it. Then, some squeals of some sort.

“Oh, no, I hope I didn’t break anything inside.” Amelia jumps up to get the box. But, her father is already picking it up.

“Go sit down on the couch, please.”

Amelia does so. She straightens her plaid skirt as she looks up at her father. He hands her the shiny pink box. Amelia places it in her lap again with one arm wrapped around it. She uses her other hand to rip the paper loose. The top of the box pops open. A set of bright blue eyes stares up at her. A pink tongue licks her cheek. Her fingers touch the tan wavy hair before the whole fluffy body lands on her chest. Paws on each side of her face. Wet kisses all over her freckles. A ball of energy wiggling in her hands. Amelia feels tears fall—joyful ones. She smiles at her parents, “This is the best surprise ever. I love you, both.”

 

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Four Seasons of Change

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Sunflowers in the middle of my table

Always reminding me of

Their beauty and their seeds of giving.

 

In my garden, the tomatoes, squash,

And yellow cucumbers grow right

Beside them.

 

They stand like sentinels

Waiting for the yellow finches

To peck out their faces

 

Morning arrives with a flush of pink

Near the horizon

It clears as the sun rises

 

The soil in the garden

Now soft from the overnight

Rain shower

 

My journal rests on the picnic table

As I drop the seeds into the turned soil

With the hole waiting for each seed to

Land

 

Never packing too tightly

For the green shoots to rise

The delicate growth following the sunshine

 

I always keep the dirt in the garden

Instead of the place where I sleep

And eat.

 

Every day, I hope no souls get

Called to the heavens.

A daily thought as I plant away.

 

No pesticides for me or my dirt patch

I think as the old lullabies play over and

Over inside my head—sunrises & sunsets

Forever over the fields of growing crops.

 

Autumn will bring out the dressed scarecrows,

Various gourds, and glowing Jack-o’ lanterns

Harvest festivals will fill the city streets

As people shop for homemade bread and cakes.

 

The dust of the harvests will fill the farmhouses

Bright blue skies will carry the scent of burning leaves

A cloudless sky will greet us with winter after

The memories of festivals fade

 

Falling stars on the horizon

But the Harvest Moon rises above

Like a great ball of fire

I’ll miss these subtle changes of color

When winter sets in with the coldness always

Near.  –J. E. Cook ©2017

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Beaches & Sunflowers

Remembering dancing with friends and

A boyfriend

Me wearing sunglasses most of the time

Due to my sensitivity to

Bright lights,

beach trips

With colorful bathing suits

Rolling waves

Knocking us over

Our knees hitting the sand below us

Collapsing from exhaustion

On our beach towels

And drinking cold cans of beer

Together

Floppy hats covering aging women’s

Faces from the sun

Wearing wet suits home

Inside a stuffy hot car

Our sensible shoes left at home

Envying the people inside the air

Conditioned shops as we pass them

Watching ice cream being served up

Others sipping on iced drinks in varying

Colors and flavors

The drive making us sleepy

Wanting only a nice cozy bed

After a refreshing shower

Floral-print summer dresses cover our

Sun-kissed bodies and sand is between

Our bare feet and our flip-flops

Envying the colors of the sunflowers

In the fields, we pass

Their faces turned to the sun

Like us on the beach

Loving to be surrounded by their

Happy faces

Their seeds are so useful

Yes, they are my favorite flower

Even though, picking one flower

As a favorite is such a difficult

Choice in life. —J.E. Cook ©2017

wavin1

 

 

Cherishing Life

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To be in full bloom

Where one exists,

Is what one’s life should be…

To live in the moment always

Not in the past or worrying about one’s

Future that has not arrived yet. –J. E. Cook ©2017

purpleshamrocks1

The Little Things, and More

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On a green metal bench, outside

Our favorite ice cream spot

We watch the dogwoods dance

In the breeze off the lake,

The sky is bursting with their pink

and

White petals

Reminding me of the delicate

Frosted flowers on the cupcakes

Across the street designed

By a young baker,

The smells in the air

Around us are intoxicating

And the blooms

Become confetti on the sidewalks

My cone contains sweet caramel

That is sex on my tongue

As I lick it,

A touch of sea salt and

Sprinkle of pecan nuts,

A swirl of whipped cream

And a shiny cherry on top,

What else would one want

While they watch the skies

With their favorite love

And forget all the foreign thoughts.

 

Being with the man of your dreams

Is always wonderful

Even without these added pleasures

His curly hair at his neckline

As his sudden smile appears

When he watches the ice cream

Drip onto my lap.

His presence is appreciated

And his eye contact

Makes me blush

My shoulders ache for his touch.

A hug that brings me in so

Close right before his lips

Caress mine. –J. E. Cook ©2017

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Shared Sunsets

DONELOL
A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.
~Having the right connection~

Shared Sunsets

The girl that is rare
Is the one dear to one’s heart.

As I stand by my tree of choice
And watch the sun make its
Colors at Sunset
With the birds lining the tree
Branches–but not uttering a song
At all
As puddles fill with insects
And the rows of corn
Flutter in the wind
In all the fields sprawling
Before me
The black silhouettes
Further out reflect the remaining
Reds in the skies

Those evening skies
As I hold the hand of my closest
Friend and we remain silent
And happy with the passing
Of time
Because it happens with us
Together
Before this lovely scene in
The sky.
–J. E. Cook ©2017
gorgousbride

Also Visit: https://josiecook48.wordpress.com/2017/07/16/musings-on-a-sunday-morning/