A place to gather words before they get lost.

Cat bird seat canary, this coal mine echoes of torches in the ground

What hand and finger feel reverberation; conversation; frustration

The way Autumn ends, with cold and wind and rain; days grow short, again

for #ds106

Heritage, tangled up with things nearly heard;

the faint rustle of lineage and blood lines, carved journeys of experience

this recorded quiet always brings with it some of the noise, static voices of the past

intruding in

for #ds106

Chromatography and Serendipity

An artist hardly knows what ink might make what the spill might create when the fiber takes the colors for a run

Whispering Gallery

Maybe lean a little closer - place your ear against the stone

Maybe close your eyes tighter - let me whisper, you're not alone

Maybe it's just sound - bending tiles, underground;

Maybe it's my voice - for when I am gone, but still around

It's the wind's shouting and the wind's singing that finally lets loose the leaves, dancing

We stand below tree-line, gazing up at high heels and soft shoes, broken stems, all fluttering to song

There's no longer time for 13 ways of looking at anything anymore, so let that blackbird fly free and kick the stone back to soil, and maybe put this poem down and get out there to work the world into a place where we can spend our days looking at it all over again in 13 ways, or more

Poetry Reading

Some of the best poets we read ask that we not never not ever use their voice when devouring their verse - an argument that it's best for a reader to cut their own lips along the margins of the page, gnawing like small jackhammers on internal rhythm and rhyme beating out time in order to best discover something like love

for #ds106

Under Ancient Blue - we walk these trails, footstep by footstep, trodden stories pressed down on pathways: a poem stuck inside this tree; a story buried under that stone; a phrase adrift on running water

Footstep by footstep, we walk these trails, alone and together, Under Ancient Blue

for #writeout inspired by

Who was it who placed that rock upon the prone body and broken spirit of Giles Corey, three days of the world weighted down upon him, like Sisyphus with no mountain, as Salem wandered by, ears stretched for any mutterings of forgiveness that never came?

— for #writeout ghost stories (from