A place to gather words before they get lost.

Tree Poems: Seedling

Stuck on the tongue of the bird in flight, a feathered suitcase on the move in the dead of the night, I drop myself to dig myself in, cushioned and comforted in soil by morning light

for #writeout

Where the fog came from — densecloudmatterdarkasdusk densecloudmatterdarkasdusk densecloudmatterdarkasdusk densecloudmatterdarkasdusk — was as mysterious as where the fog went

What I miss is making lists:

scribbles on paper, folded and stuffed into pants pockets, like little word-fueled reminder rockets

Every note I've wrote on digital screens — in calendars, emails, apps — quickly becomes forgotten or ignored, and even worse, never seen

for Openwrite

I knew better than to listen to stories that followed you through the years

— the tentative tales that teachers say they won't tell, but say, anyway —

for here we are, five weeks in, and you've been nothing but magic,

an inventive writer, hidden beneath an armor of prose and poems

for openwrite

Who's this odd stranger sitting inside this poem, the one who pauses only at

th...e / / poi....nt...s

the one whose mornings open with invented verse, with hope each day's words might forestall the coming of something worse?

for Openwrite

It's when the strings kick in that I find myself stuck,

an immovable object with listening ears and weighted feet,

for when the violin settles in with the cello and the two become one, I'm always undone

— for Open Write

He tells me he’s a climber, so I ask, of ladders? No, he says, of trees, and now, instead of him, it’s me, I see, pulling branches over fingers to reach the top of giant maples and knotty elms in the woods on Sunday mornings, when everyone else is off to church, and I alone, in the quiet of a wooden perch, watch the horizon of forever

— for Open Write (memory poem)

Some walls bear the weight of rebel art

the scrabbled lines and faded colors of dreamers

mixing paint and ink with cement and brick

here, a crooked object, a jagged entry; There, a crazy sign

Run your fingers along the rough, where beautiful fades into time

inspired by #nwp Write Across America (Eastern Michigan Writing project; Ypsilanti downtown art walk)

An empty glass vase is anything but

memories of petals falling, the slow fade of days

each vacancy, a gift of what's been disappearing

Pen scratchers, spending quiet time on paper -

Screen writers and fatigue fighters, navigating pulped wood with etch marks and story sparks -

linking back to blank nothingness, inked on by imagined possibilities