A place to gather words before they get lost.

Quarter note staccato sounds, his bass rumbles in the basement beneath the attic of the horns – here we sit, an audience in rapture at this place where mystery abounds – then the woman next to me erupts in applause before the solo's even over, and I find myself following suit, snare drum to her cymbal crash, then others adding in, too, our skin and hands becoming one rolling thunder in a night of wonder ...

and in a shared quiet of a single moment, pause; shut-eye listening

*Haibun poem, remembering a moment from Christian McBride's New Jawn concert at Bombyx Center on March 29, 2023

for #verselove

Look — Mama didn't raise me a fool – I get that in this place, I'm ain't ever gonna be one of the cool – but at least give me a chance and let me get my feet in the dirt – and refrain from the pain of the words that hurt

for #mastoprompt

For ballast and balance - you act as my keel

A first step to constructing a frame of the real

My sails sing out towards horizon though I'm prone to submergence

But when I am battered, you, my underpin, my stable one

you, my love, you keep me adrift, riding safe currents

for #mastoprompt

What if every moment you had the urge to write

a surge of words suddenly emerged in sight?

A poem a play a story might unfold on imaginary lines

instead of getting lost; the cost of an active mind

for #mastoprompt

A feather found on the ground

dipped in ink and scratched across the page

a quill to quiet the world

for #mastoprompt

Blank page still to be filled — a difficult terrain — a map like this needs directional compass and a point from which to begin

for #mastoprompt

Drop anchor, wherever, but remember

you don't need to stay where you are, forever

for #mastoprompt

Things Left Behind By The Illumination (Writing In The Margins Again)

Now, with winter nearly gone, we rediscover the worlds alive beneath stone and rock, seemingly oblivious to us - but maybe not


And where do we go from here, she asks, as if I am somebody in the know but I am not, nor ever was — still, I trace my finger along the folds, down streets, and into fields, and through woods, hoping for a safe place to land


Night's notes – play them soft – in tension with the upward design of day's sweet melody, and write what you hear, even if it's silence tucked inside your solitary head


Where gravity pulls you, resist the urge to fall into it – Instead, find the focus knob to turn the thoughts into something useable – a poem, a song, a story, a shout of love into the crowded unseen world; Then, listen close to the reverberations


And white light, blown into view by the particles, shaken inside the invisible; I wait for it, the movement meant for me, a signal to begin dipping my pen into the ink of shadows left behind after the illumination


Some of us are bound to wonder, in wonder, with wonder, constrained in infinite space, but still left pulling up the corners to witness what's beneath


Moonlight, three a.m - the thread that I lost earlier suddenly is there, here, it's become a whisper that won't go quiet, and try as I might, I rise before the sun for another poem has begun

Riffs of Terry's Triptych –

Video Curation:

At dawn, crocus yawn, humming inside morning's song; the rains, not long gone

for Algot

Go on ahead - Stick your fat head in the sand

I think we have all come to understand

it's been a trial and you?

You're stuck in the muck of deep denial

for #mastoprompt