A place to gather words before they get lost.
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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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 – https://impedagogy.com/wp/blog/2023/03/26/a-triptych-of-observations-taken-from-my-daybooks/
Video Curation: https://play.soundslides.com/W0qSFC9K
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
Of course they don't like to think about ...
sounds stolen by their ancestors
harvest your joy while it's still ripe and know that at summer's end
the wildflowers have erupted
— A Line Lifting activity, with borrowed words from poems by Kristin S, Grace S, Jolynn K, and Leslie F. in NWPStudio — I ask forgiveness after the fact ...
kid, the streets seem empty but broken glass and nails, strewn, remain nearly invisible and I wonder, where're your shoes?
'cause you, in your barefoot blues, kid, I'm walking with you, too, with our shaggy canines, banging waggly tails anew
the only car on the road this morning delivers the news, kid, and if you're like me, you'll first read comics, through,
for a smile before the headlines blaring of disaster and doom and war, and I want you to know, kid, I'm walking along with you, too
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? — from The Summer Day by Mary Olivers
I remember the day I broke my great-grandmother's favorite tea cup – the one with fancy flower etchings and a fancy delicate handle – and the look on her face, its folds wrinkling her eyes at the pieces, the way my clumsiness chipped away at something I would never know of her story from back home, before here, and how she accepted my apology, as only a grandmother might, but maybe never saw a means of forgiveness
White Oaks and Sugar Maples, linking together in angled arms
Paper Birch and Black Walnuts, singing together of the rains
Red Spruce and twisted Pine, shivering in winter, waiting for spring
Writers like us, we wander the canvas, inspired by quiet determination
of a forest, alive, if you take the time to listen
for #mastoprompt
In silence - the watcher of news, in turn, turns furious:
The truth is, the truth has become far too elusive
for #mastoprompt