A place to gather words before they get lost.
Sound, of you becomes me, a symphony in a major key, a string of sixteenth notes strung together, harmony and melody merge together so that one voice is two, me plus you, resting beneath the sign of Fermata
An etheree poem for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/etheree-revisited/
Where not so long ago there was nothing but winter, now there is color – forgotten bulbs blossoming into view, in brilliant yellow, purple and orange, a menagerie occupying a sunny corner of the yard
There is a nook inside a room inside a house - a small corner of mess and light with a guitar on a stand and pens and paper at hand, and the possibility of songs of love and fight – a retreat in the maelstrom of a mixed-up world calling out to me
for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/finding-a-safe-harbor/
Hail, then, to the plants which weather winter storms and wait to be reborn
for Algot
Some things stay whole; others, break apart; the heart, like paper, folded into intricate pieces, as worded creases displace the center, faded lines, forever: this is how we remember
for #OpenWrite
Zeytun Gospels
https://www.ethicalela.com/witness-celebration-poetry-for-armenian-genocide-remembrance/
Each hand ticking towards destruction never stops, and yet, here we are, people of the world, working towards a common goal: for peace, we must pause the clock
for #DS106 Daily Create
What was it about Charlie Bucket that kept us sitting so long on that old couch - an antsy boy on either side of her – listening night after night, as she read aloud the story, the three of us always wondering who might be the last one left to win the factory, as if there were any doubt?
for #OpenWrite
I remember the first night in that apartment, that old brick building, the way the Mill River roared just outside the window, as if life were suddenly moving on
Too dark to see so I ask her, and it's the same answer as nearly every morning until seasonal darkness fades and our eyes can see for ourselves
for #ds106 #DailyCreate
The forgotten remains of last year's discards wait at the top of the bin;
an old banana peel grinds from morning coffee a tangle of teabags bread ends moldy green peels of an abandoned orange
I stick a pitchfork in, and push, tilling the past to tend to the present