A place to gather words before they get lost.
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
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/
A hammer to the head — it's not what you think — but even so, years after, I thought about it, often, late at night, remembering the fall, the cry, the call, as I lay awake in bed