A place to gather words before they get lost.


Feet kicking beneath the long table, a freedom for furtive movement as the talker talks on

for every insider term spoken as if fact, it’s another point, scored

as we, the audience barely attentive, sit, underwhelmed, and underbored

inspired by Tellio

Uggh ... do I really have to rhyme? I barely have just enough time to sort through my poem writing mind, but here I am — here I am

Here I am, counting finger stress, each syllable, another test of form and function; it's a mess but here I am — here I am

— from Open Write (using Monotetra format)

What an odd little world they built, in the back-seat, third-seat of that run-it-down, all-around-town Chrysler Voyager, a wheeled palace of stale crumps and arcade tokens, of abandoned toys stuck in nooks and dog-eared picture books, the way the door would slide open with a swoosh, and the magic of the space, suddenly broken

inspired by Open Write (car poem)

Green becomes you, the new Blue the season -

the paint chip shade capturing a world's divided attention – in brushstrokes, covering mishaps and yet drying ever so slowly —

we dip into the avocado's perfectly glowing hue, a taste of this year's Guacamole

—– inspired by Open Write's Paint Chip Poetry prompt

We, who find ourselves here, we who have arrived and do not merely engage but mean to bring in a kaleidoscope of voices, a shout to nonviolent, a cause, the direct call that requires us to surface action, to make visible our fears, the are – this is – we will – no longer be hidden, not now, not ever again, for in tension the shift always sleeps the sleep of dreamer, in that creators and voice of change is of this moment; while we are already tension, now let us all become alive

– a Double Golden Shovel, constructed from two lines from Martin Luther King Jr’s Letter From a Birmingham Jail (1963) via Open Write prompt

Unrelenting waves burst upon the frozen sand the frozen land bears the weight Unrelenting


Story on story like skin on skin

inked onto days where words begin

maybe when she bit to cut the thread, she showed more tongue than teeth, a knotted belief in how a spoken word mends the whole where something broken goes

sort of inspired by Thread by Dan Chiasson

Any afternoon that arrives like that


the shades, drawn, and music, on

Bang, goes the branch but nothing's fallen

It's just a cold snap; nature's calling