A watercolor landscape in the dreamer's mind; what Spring thoughts might find
for Algot
A place to gather words before they get lost.
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?
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!