Edged out
in eraser marks,
these faint lines
of something
once written, now gone,
I lean my pencil
against the line,
and dream
Movement
arrives slowly -
I'm all mosey
with not nearly
enough engine
Word tinkerer
wrangling an idea
into text — the next
thing you know,
it's a mess
So tender is the writer
with words tucked inside
a pocket, fearful of how fraught
the eyes of attention can be
Phase phrasing:
a gentle dimming of meaning
where words in your head
don't mean the same on the page —
for the heart, intervenes
Our tired eyes
telling lies
for what we see is not what
we saw
(poems written in Terry's blog post margins: https://impedagogy.com/wp/blog/2024/04/07/10325/)
01053
Oh
Leeds
Oh
You river mill community -
I adore you
for #VerseLove
A watercolor
landscape in the dreamer's mind;
what Spring thoughts might find
for Algot
Balanced at the top
of the mountain, looking down
in silence, no words
filled the gap, no words needed,
as we drank in the valley
a Tanka of a moment for #verselove
Louis Prima –
he ain't gonna whisper,
nope, Louis' gonna shout -
gonna shout my ear out
but I'm all game
to leaning in,
imagine him sing,
to let him bring
the biggest noise
in the biggest voice
anyone's ever called,
the musical siren
of New Orleans,
jumping – jiving – wailing
off the wall
from the image: https://flic.kr/p/2oj1mGT
We settle
into our seats
as the orchestra
of quiet begins
to play inside
the living room -
a mix of Cage and
Copeland -
our fingers tapping
in time together,
light drum skins,
we begin a rhythm
for #verselove
While Bill Martin Waits
v, too busy
chatting with z,
didn't even see
the coconut tree,
missed it by
a mile and so
it was left to c
to find v and then z,
and bring them both back
to the coconut tree,
only to realize
that b, d and g were
now lost, too, you see,
and so what a mess
it was that morning
with Bill Martin waiting
at the coconut tree
with apologies to Bill Martin (and his co-writer John Archambault) and the letters of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom
for #verselove
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