A place to gather words before they get lost.
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
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/)