A place to gather words before they get lost.

Oh, Ant, you vex me, the way you crawl your way through our wires and circuits to climb our wall

Ant, I admire you, your tenacity, the way you work tirelessly for the colony

Oh, Ant, you annoy me, for if it was only you, and not all of you, it might even be okay

but day after day, there you are, Ant, a little smudge with legs, moving endlessly

for #VerseLove

Quiet, like rice in a jar, a wisp of the Nine, the tail dust of a tumbling star, the soft whisper of a cloud, cosmic particles ordered, afar - we arrive with closed eyes, never knowing where we are

inspired by a Wisp Of Cloud Nine

for #VerseLove

Opening the screen to read the prompt: A Nonet? Heh! Counting fingers so I don't forget to write within the poem's limits - but I'm wandering within the lines of this poem that now ends

for DS106 Daily Create

In a week, my empty suitcase and I returned.

from 'My Life Was The Size Of My Life' by Jane Hirshfield

Lost, I thought, lost in thought, I thought I lost it all but no, I hadn't - my odds and ends of a life had only been misplaced, maybe borrowed; something to blame for something I couldn't name – not stuff merely stolen, only, I thought: lost, and later, found, but at what cost?


for #VerseLove

If the rest of what you read from this point on, is true, then this is probably false:

Poetry might yet save the world Poetry might save the reader Poetry might save the writer Poetry might yet save ourselves Poetry might just be scattered words, snippets heard

Notice the hedging - it's the ink-line of poets threading the line, damn near every single time

for #verselove

Edged out in eraser marks, these faint lines of something once written, now gone,

I lean my pencil against the line, and dream

Movement arrives slowly -

I'm all mosey with not nearly enough engine

Word tinkerer wrangling an idea into text — the next thing you know, it's a mess

So tender is the writer with words tucked inside a pocket, fearful of how fraught the eyes of attention can be

Phase phrasing: a gentle dimming of meaning where words in your head don't mean the same on the page — for the heart, intervenes

Our tired eyes telling lies for what we see is not what we saw

(poems written in Terry's blog post margins:


Oh Leeds Oh You river mill community - I adore you

for #VerseLove

A watercolor landscape in the dreamer's mind; what Spring thoughts might find

for Algot

Balanced at the top of the mountain, looking down in silence, no words filled the gap, no words needed, as we drank in the valley

a Tanka of a moment for #verselove

Louis Prima – he ain't gonna whisper, nope, Louis' gonna shout - gonna shout my ear out but I'm all game to leaning in, imagine him sing, to let him bring the biggest noise in the biggest voice anyone's ever called, the musical siren of New Orleans, jumping – jiving – wailing off the wall

from the image: