The first is from a prompt of "write a ready to celebrate" poem. I struggled a bit with it, and I think it shows in the result, sadly. The second is my third attempt at writing in a form, as it is a cinquain (a short, usually unrhymed poem consisting of 22 syllables distributed as 2,4,6,8,2).
We mark the days on a dry erase calendar
slowly counting down to our eighth year.
Our limbs, tired daily, droop over armrests
and on the recline of a loveseat while
we think of all of the sleep we've lost
that we will steal back from our jobs,
from the daily beatdown of the struggle
to pay bills. We don't worry if they're
on time anymore. All that matters are the
sixteen days between then and now and
what we want to do when my car crosses
We celebrate quietly,
hardly bother with alcohol,
barely raise our voices over casual talk.
The getaway is celebration enough.
We will drop our bags in Amish country,
find the outlet stores and snag bargains,
eat hearty at the Waffle House and
completely forget about our diets,
maneuver around horse shit on the roads.
At night, we will stretch long
in the king sized bed,
but still fight over the sheets.
an endless rain
lulling me to slumber.
Words cluttering my synapses -