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
https://flic.kr/p/2rFye8S
for #OpenWrite
Bathing in the light
of the long Winter Moon,
closed eyes for dreaming
First snow; the first flakes
falling a slow somersault,
tumbling to the earth
Nature wears a mask -
a truth beneath the beauty:
Everything decays
Finger rubs off ink,
the words of the newspaper
fading, forgotten
In the fireplace,
wood crackles in snappy time;
the heat of the beat
A wind dance romance;
each branch leaves its love to chance,
and wild circumstance
for Algot
Not rutabaga -
but rooted, with bright white flesh
and greens: the turnip
Dawn, on a clear day,
breaks so gentle, unfolding
in iridescence
Boreas howling,
as if a tempest – a rush
of mythical wind