dogtrax

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

for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/i-remember/

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

for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/look-closely/

Depending on when you met me – you might have found me:

lost inside the moment of practicing my saxophone, lonely but not alone

writing little poems in a yellow notebook I kept tucked out of sight

teaching myself guitar, searching for a spark, somewhere inside the dark

turning poems into songs, singing words, ever so softly, even I could barely hear

for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/depending-on-when-you-met-me/

You might have liked me to be a child of sticks, of snare shots, sizzle, and coordinated drum kicks

Instead, you had me, a curious kid with fingers on the keys, a tongue on mouthpiece and reed

We all find our way in

for #OpenWrite

My fingers, caked in mud, removing Winter's weeds as I ponder a patch of lilies

A patch near driveway black, I too often forget where they are; my fingers, caked in mud

until the days I'm reminded of the remains of Winter's coat, as I ponder a patch of lilies

and notice among the dead, the determined vines pricker my fingers, caked in mud

But nothing short of blood stops my in my task as I ponder a patch of lilies

and remember last year's grace in blooms of tiger yellow; my fingers, caked in mud, as I ponder a patch of lilies

for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/villanelle-on-the-vine/

If every raindrop were a run, batted by clouds, cheers would be allowed

for Algot

I am from whole notes, a sound languishing over time, melody on the prowl for rhyme

I am from half-notes, broken apart like seeds, by a need to always quicken the pace

I am from quarter notes, articulation dots scratched along the top, reminding me to pause, breathe, stop

I am from eighth notes, a hand over your shoulders, a curved slur blurring us together in a riff

I am from sixteenth notes, in rapid succession; I disappear into the air before you have the chance to hear me

for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/where-im-from-again/