dogtrax

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

https://www.ethicalela.com/we-love-lists/

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 https://www.ethicalela.com/a-poem-to-a-student/

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

th...e / br...eak...in...g / 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 https://www.ethicalela.com/shimmer-of-being-alive/

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 https://www.ethicalela.com/an-out-of-body-experience-for-sunday-fun-day-9-19/

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) https://www.ethicalela.com/finding-yourself-again-a-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) https://uploads.knightlab.com/storymapjs/10d74052673e8b17fd948b5dc5dcabdf/emwp-write-across-america-2021-storymap/index.html

https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1YaAaUGSV-Zg_8BOZpi3qYWnzgE00LLgoTTmCn5SCH8k/edit#slide=id.p

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