Pensive thoughts
on the Frost Trail,
near where the
named one taught,
but what?
My journal remains
vacant this morning,
thinking of walls,
and farms, and plots
of land
and squabbles within,
the metaphors of plow,
until a raft of sunlight
hits the rock, and then
I write
a poem of something
lost, inspired by a quiet
moment on the trail
named for the poet,
Robert Frost
for OpenWrite #VerseLove
Whose boop
is this beep?
A number
to call keeps
me wondering
if I'm in a deep
online loop
Whose beep
is this boop?
via https://afterthebeep.tel/
Items in the Magic Box:
1guitar
2saxophone
3pencil
4notepad
5coffee cup
6flowers
7comic book
8newspaper
9banana
10tuner
Opening up a can of tuner guitar, though,
the banana saxophone sounds increasingly odd;
just jotting ideas down in the gutter of the newspaper
and reading only comics, remixing Archie in a notebook;
Creativity, blooming like a flowers in a coffee cup
for OpenWrite
You are still there,
wearing the limbs
of the Weeping Willow
as a hat or headdress or
hair, like magic from
the book we looked at
together as the sun set,
and when your mom, first,
and then my dad,
called us in for dinner,
leaves fading at dusk,
both of us shouted:
not yet! not yet! not yet!
#youareherepoetry
Listen: https://sodaphonic.com/audio/6iL7zE9DONUljXg0jNhI
Bad things
may happen -
the morning
the sump pump
stops working,
all you think of
is Noah and the
Ark
the afternoon
the 15-year old car
starts failing,
all you think of
are wagons with
horses
the night
the television
kicks the bucket,
all you think of
are story-lines on
pause
Continue on;
this too shall
pass
for OpenWrite
Westerly, of your
Easterly, winds bringing in
Spring's new dirt artwork
for Algot
Weave me
into patterns -
intricate by
design
I am thread
in song in story
in inked poetic verse
and where
your words
intersect with
mine
We make love
beneath the falling stars –
our own universe
Nagging
doubts
about
nearly everything,
lingers as a voice
singing
cacophony -
Cast about
for reassurance;
this world
always get better
than it seems
A winter, waning,
brings spring mud, a seasonal
reason to hate dirt