Sometimes, the rain is gone, drained then disappeared, the river, briefly broken
Other times, the rain is here, cradled in cupped hands; an ocean, briefly stolen
— for Water Poem Project (opposite stanza poem)
A place to gather words before they get lost.
Sometimes, the rain is gone, drained then disappeared, the river, briefly broken
Other times, the rain is here, cradled in cupped hands; an ocean, briefly stolen
— for Water Poem Project (opposite stanza poem)
Sometime, we wonder what the small house on a stick at the edge of the road says about the people around us -
Who discarded the college application guide? the peanut-free cookbook? the Learn Hebrew Now, scribbled with blue note marks? the spy novel? the beach read? the picture book gone grey with age?
And what does it say about me, a reader picking through the bones of abandoned tomes in this small home, eyeing titles through the glass door, wondering, do I really need just one book?
I do
— for Slice of Life
here is where we sat, exhausted from the hike beyond the path of beaten feet and boots, wearing sweat and silence and listening now only to the way the brook found its way around corners, time's elbows making space in the crowded woods
Unexpected winds of winter may be best remembered by broken sticks and branches and pinecone piles, long buried since late December – now debris, freed from snow: a seasonal backyard surrender
— for Slice of Life
Forever changed is what they’ll be: these Children of the Pandemic
Whether shaped by panic or fear or the greater good - no child today escapes where the world once stood and now, stands at a fragile start
the hope for all rests with open heart, nurtured by together and not by distance dividing us apart
-for Slice of Life
Tongues filled with iron; dipping lips cherish water where nature has been
living – these unknown forces lost to imagination
— for Water Poem Project (a Tanka poem of taste)
It's just smile after smile; just mile after mile – streets and sidewalks and lawns lined with faces not seen in weeks – you wave and wave and wave - you find yourself smiling with hardly strength to speak, just motion of mobile movement, settling in with disbelief; your front seat sadness colliding with this madness, even in temporary relief
— for Slice of Life, upon a joining colleagues for a Car Parade through town
Mist Ghost Rising from rivers; Fingers through water break apart this surface tension
— for Water Poems — a Fibonaci Poem (1,1,2,5,8)
Upon a Visit to the Quabbin
This quiet is where they used bulldozers and floods to bury four small towns – barn roofs and fire-stacks, other pieces of people's homes, still just below the surface, drowned but defiant against time - all for the greater good of somewhere else
Sometimes it feels as if we are forever living in metaphor
Small branches and sticks trick streams, currents as buoy, while we stop to watch