A place to gather words before they get lost.
When print is taking to its logical Conclusion: free verse
— page 80, Context Collapse (A Poem Containing A History Of Poetry) by Ryan Ruby
Place your pennies inside the jar, and hear the metal coins jingle against the glass - this jail cell beckons to every poem, written; it's worth mentioning that poets are free to write but always remain captive to the confines of their poems
A quiet traverse through winter's nighttime forest; eyes and ears, alert
... the privatized public learns to sing With its eyes alone, moving them across The printed page in silence
— page 48, Context Collapse (A Poem Containing A History Of Poetry) by Ryan Ruby
Is that the voice humming at night when all is dark and stories return from just beyond the noticeable moment, eyes closed, but still in focus in hopes of recovery of what was once there, but now disappeared?
The poet invites the public to play A hubristic game of hide-and-go-seek
— page 16, Context Collapse (A Poem Containing A History Of Poetry) by Ryan Ruby
Game pieces and movement on a board of squares; words, just little buttons, and the dice, our vice; our voice, of course, spitting out rhymes in lines as if gods were ever listening; they are not, nor never were, too busy as they are making worlds we'll never find faith to live in
And who are they, this multiplicity? On principle: anyone allowed through The door: as many ears can be placed Close enough to hear the poet say: sing ....
— page 6, Context Collapse (A Poem Containing A History Of Poetry) by Ryan Ruby
And what of the poet with no audience to speak of, to speak to;
still, they write, as if those ears were at the door, listening for the singing, a melody into the void
Some words just scatter into nothingness; a poem is as fragile as old furniture, pieces broken on the floor
Winter thunder bellows at dusk — low harbinger of sparks and storms being born; somewhere on ice, lightning strikes
Star falling; Open your mouth to catch the night
(for an emoji poem for DS106)
Fingertips along the edge of a flake -
Fragile as it's falling
I reach my hand into the snow to find the key
to where to secrets go
as if, in wonder — three degrees below — a door opens, and in, I go
Teeth, chattering - this cold breeze battering my skin; I've lost my voice to the winter wind
Somewhere, miles away, someone else will hear me sing the song I lost to frost's morning sting
Still a flicker, hope is a small candle we hold in our heart