A Mere Shadow (NaPoWriMo)

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A Mere Shadow
By Donna M. Monnig

I look into the mirror, reflection unclear,
I don’t know what I see.
Eyes peer, thoughts seer, distant but near,
I don’t know if it’s me.
What do I believe, what’s my mind conceive,
what do I really know?
Do my eyes send and receive or do they deceive,
am I me, or a mere shadow?
The reflection’s stare, no thoughts does it share,
Lifelike image covered in mist.
All here but not all there, unable to declare,
which one of us exists.

© 2017 Donna M. Monnig

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The Universe Has No Hourglass (NaPoWriMo)


The Universe Has No Hourglass
By Donna M. Monnig

Cosmically, time is an endless,
vast repository of events
coalescing, blending, merging,
an intricate quilt of galaxies,
stars, protoplanetary specks of dust:
Gravity, stitching the fabric of motion.

The Universe has no hourglass.

Humanity, time is fleeting,
every moment measured to
the last hour, minute, second.
Events blurring together repetitiously,
indistinguishable to the human mind.
The sand always runs out in the end.

The Universe has no hourglass.

The Universe exists in the infinity of time,
humans cannot outlast dust. Separate,
strikingly opposite. Together, complimentary.
A paradox: Is there sound in the metaphorical
forest if no one hears the tree fall? Does a
Universe exist without beings who know it?

The Universe has no hourglass.

© 2017 Donna M. Monnig

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Portrait of Real Love (NaPoWriMo)

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Portrait of Real Love
By Donna M. Monnig

The prompt today was simple,
write a portrait poem about someone,
But language you see is cheap,
Words: a thousand. A picture: one.
So how can I describe or detail,
with but a few lines on a page,
All that I love about someone,
when I can’t even count the ways?
Love is so much more than
a mere picture, poem, or prose,
What we love about someone
goes deeper than anyone knows.
True love? Not necessarily,
its existence is questionable, sure,
Real love, on the other hand,
that was built to endure.
Taking the good with the bad,
accepting faults and vice,
Giving up a part of yourself,
that’s part of the sacrifice.
Real love is rarely selfish,
it doesn’t care about blame,
It’s about solving problems,
not putting each other to shame.
Real love is never perfect, as
a portrait, it’d be faded and torn,
But still recognizable, long after
true love washed away in the storm.
People are complicated, and love
is a paradox few understand,
It’s not about getting what you want,
it’s about giving what you can.
A portrait of someone I love,
would be looked upon with scorn,
For it’s not a crisp red rose, it’s
missing petals and full of thorns.

© 2017 Donna M. Monnig

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Simply Sophisticated (NaPoWriMo)

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Simply Sophisticated
By Donna M. Monnig

Such a simple thing, no hard drive, no screen,
No software to update, no battery required,
No need for anti-virus; a hacker’s worst dream,
No binary numbers, no codes, nothing wired.
It can’t be forgotten, out of sight out of mind,
It can’t be deleted or erased from existence.
It stands on its own, it has a solid spine,
Yet, the Internet has caused much resistance,
But books are the Master, not the Apprentice.

© 2017 Donna M. Monnig

 

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She Loved To Dance (NaPoWriMo)

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She Loved to Dance
By Donna M. Monnig

She loved to dance.
Beneath the moonlight,
At the crack of dawn,
Across the kitchen,
Or out on the lawn.
She loved to dance.
To songs on the radio,
To songs silent in her mind,
To anything with a beat,
For any reason she could find.
She loved to dance.
She danced in ballrooms,
She danced in the rain,
She danced in dreams,
She danced in her brain.
She loved to dance.
No one ever knew,
No one had a clue,
She loved to dance.
She never danced.

© 2017 Donna M. Monnig

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Different Shades of Luck (NaPoWriMo)

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Different Shades of Luck
By Donna M. Monnig

This magnificent beast called luck.
In it’s clutches all are stuck.
Always in different shapes and shades,
Spreading hope and despair in equal spades.
Some get the Good, some get the Dumb.
Some are left kings, others made bums.
The Luck of the Draw, or the Devil’s own,
Luck is not a skill one can hone.
At the end of the day, odds low or high,
Fate is as fickle as the roll of a die.
Unpredictable, never what it would seem,
Even the Luck of the Irish is not always green.

© 2017 Donna M. Monnig

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A Bride’s Maid (NaPoWriMo)

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A Bride’s Maid
By Donna M. Monnig

She watch’s the wedding,
her sister, the bride,
Two more sisters are
bridesmaids, on either side.

The bride she’s so happy,
it’s her special day,
The husband is thrilled to
finally get his way.

The bridesmaids stand
proudly, watching ringside,
As the preacher says, “You
may now kiss the bride.”

The photographer captures
the moment beginning to end,
Another records each memory
to be watched again and again.

Guests smile and congratulate,
while friends reminisce,
Girls line up for the bouquet
hoping one day, to have all of this.

But she? She watches, invisible
as lasting memories, they make,
After all, who at a wedding
remembers who served the cake?

© 2017 Donna M. Monnig

~

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