dogtrax

Can you even imagine: the shelter it gives the shade it is the dirt it reaches the birds it protects the bugs it keeps the time this old tree has spent, wondering, maybe worrying, maybe wanting nothing more than only to be?

for WriteOut

Your music, humming:

the light breeze rustling softly through Autumn's scattered leaves

the gargle of springtime melt falling from distant mountains at the river's bend

the acorns dropping on rocks – the titter-tat of arrhythmic drumming like stones on a mat

I'm humming now, too, Mother Earth, as I sit here, appreciating this song of you

for VerseLove

Rattled, the knives in her kitchen cabinet drawers disappeared when she needed them, most;

We little cared about jam or the last smudges of peanut butter at the bottom of the jar, only that

the flat blade edges lifted stuck stones and rotted sticks – the dull edge as scalpel and our fingers, steady — revealing a tapestry of bugs and roots and wonder

for VerseLove

In sunshine dreaming windows beckon towards morning with flowers, yawning

for Algot

In sunshine dreaming windows beckon towards morning with flowers, yawning

for Algot

Oh, Ant, you vex me, the way you crawl your way through our wires and circuits to climb our wall

Ant, I admire you, your tenacity, the way you work tirelessly for the colony

Oh, Ant, you annoy me, for if it was only you, and not all of you, it might even be okay

but day after day, there you are, Ant, a little smudge with legs, moving endlessly

for #VerseLove

Quiet, like rice in a jar, a wisp of the Nine, the tail dust of a tumbling star, the soft whisper of a cloud, cosmic particles ordered, afar - we arrive with closed eyes, never knowing where we are

inspired by a Wisp Of Cloud Nine https://www.theoppositeshop.com/product/wisp-of-cloud-nine/12?si=true

for #VerseLove

Opening the screen to read the prompt: A Nonet? Heh! Counting fingers so I don't forget to write within the poem's limits - but I'm wandering within the lines of this poem that now ends

for DS106 Daily Create

In a week, my empty suitcase and I returned.

from 'My Life Was The Size Of My Life' by Jane Hirshfield https://poets.org/poem/my-life-was-size-my-life

Lost, I thought, lost in thought, I thought I lost it all but no, I hadn't - my odds and ends of a life had only been misplaced, maybe borrowed; something to blame for something I couldn't name – not stuff merely stolen, only, I thought: lost, and later, found, but at what cost?

Audio: https://sodaphonic.com/audio/9NVpaURhezj8LNJvWmF6

for #VerseLove

If the rest of what you read from this point on, is true, then this is probably false:

Poetry might yet save the world Poetry might save the reader Poetry might save the writer Poetry might yet save ourselves Poetry might just be scattered words, snippets heard

Notice the hedging - it's the ink-line of poets threading the line, damn near every single time

for #verselove