A place to gather words before they get lost.
Voices, echo
Words crawl inside the collective mind, a world yet to be turned from such madness
of race and division
for how shall we come together and truly begin to see each other - not beyond skin and history, but somewhere within it?
Some men rise from ash and assassination — women do, too — these fragile bonds of possibilities linger in the imagination as
Voices, echo
Methuselah's Long Shadow
What do you see, bristlecone tree, when you reach your limbs into me?
Who’ll sing of your rings, the song etched by eternity?
Where will we be, bristlecone tree, when this land returns to the sea?
Who’ll sing of these things, a world forever changed by degrees?
— Inspired by piece about bristlecones in The New Yorker
Upon this bridge of words, footsteps linger
Where writers go, readers follow — the singer
calls out the tune, a melody line, true to song
Where harmony meets melody, we, too, sing along
these stones, buried like bones, keep secrets close - like stories we keep buried deep
for Terry
Scribbled scratched and unsightly, what contains my words barely hints at the beauty beneath
left as comment at https://msvictorreads.wordpress.com/2020/01/14/i-might-have-a-problem/
I am the eyes in the corner of the space, where the book finds comfort, or conflict, or perhaps a bit of both, all at once, even, and all I really need is quiet, a chance to ponder the conundrum of story
left as comment at https://www.clarelandrigan.com/blog/slice-of-life-creating-space-to-consider-sol19-twtblog-booklove-readaloud
the rope grips my hands, my fingers raw from worry; when weather changes, so do I
Spring yawns, its warm breath the death of cold winter days; and then sleep, again
Stories splinter, don't they?
Some become dust
Others must settle before they can be told
Too many words waiting in the wings yet never one enough
choosing is tough
but if we focus close our eyes wander the mind
what surfaces may well be what we need to proceed
smooth where the world seems rough