A place to gather words before they get lost.
The scritch and the scratch of withered grass in the wind, a soft marimba
In the small moment of waiting for the water to boil for hot tea
Snapping sticks and twigs to build up a bonfire; a time for stories
A thin flower stem withering in sun and wind; standing ground, strong
Rake the red hot coals of the fire; it's burning below the surface
He's a string-strummer idea-generator music-maker harmony-finder chord-creator bandmate and friend
for #OpenWrite
Some days, the world breaks down, like decomposition of leaves in the rain
for Algot
Between rows of trees, branches weighted with apples - the scent of decay - yet there's sweetness on our tongue as we sample the season
for #OpenWrite
A few too many words, wouldn’t you say, sit inside the bins of this rather long, ramble-on mess of words and lines and bent rhymes and something’s bound to be wrong when you just keep on writing, fighting the urge to edit away, to parse away, to cut away what needs to be cut, but you can’t even trust your gut anymore, because you know how it is when you’re writing your way out of a rut; everything tumbles loose like an avalanche, and only later, when you force yourself to sift through, to rescue, if only by chance, the thing you need the most; the verse that sits inside the mess of the poem
for #OpenWrite