dogtrax

Wanderers like you wonder what I'm thinking, as I rest my weary head here

I am silent, deep in thought, and you ought to join me, friend

Repose sends us into inner places, quiet spaces of song

for #writeout

Dance with us, Luna, in the pull of the tides but whose song will we hear, when you re-appear?

Luna, known as tungi, kuu, hli, cap, yoreh, maan, mwezi, bulan, marama, and ay -

We name you, silver one, to try to claim you as you slip our fingers and slide back into the folds of sky

for #writeout

Bring us the light, Sol, from your long distant gaze

your turbulent voice rides solar winds, like waves

We bask in forgiveness, close our eyes to the sky

And wait, impatient, at dawn, for each moment you arise

for #writeout

What she thought when she screamed was a cockroach was a stinkbug -

the scurrying species that periodically invades our classroom and elicits a shout;

I wrap the bug up in tissue, open the door, and toss it back out

for #writeout

Here, at dawn, before the day has begun, the house is far from silent;

a sump pump flows; a neighbor starts the car; the dog walks on wooden floor; the fridge whistles and hums;

fingers on the keys, the sound of me, alone, typing this poem

for #writeout

The blue ink handwriting is faded on the cassette tape sticker label but I can still just make out titles of songs by The Cure, The Replacements, Oingo Boingo and other bands of the 80s whose music had never reached my ears until he took the time to mix the tape. When I talk of it today, my wife wonders about other motives, given the legacy of homemade mix-tapes as gifts of something deeper. I still believe it was only in the sharing of music that motivated him to help me to listen farther afield than I would have otherwise done. But who knows.

In the dusk of the wild red leaves ... – Carl Sandburg

The stealth boy with hair as crimson as the woods of a changing season, disappears, or maybe only imagines he does, hoping his mop top camouflage against a game of hide and seek in the woods where his sisters are looking but not nearly noticing how different the world seems now even as the days begin to fade

for #WriteOut

We were at an apple orchard, gathering fruit (Cortland, Golden, Macoun, etc) as part of a annual family tradition each Autumn when I noticed a sign for the sale of Sunflowers. The paper was old, the ink faded by rain and sun. What remained of the flowers were droopy skeletons of summer's glory, a sort of cemetery of what had bloomed with no doubt magnificence just a few weeks back. I was tempted to pick one of the fallen flowers, but the sign still announced the sale of each flower for a cost of $2.50 a stem. I let the idea go, and left the ghosts of the Sunflower graveyard for the soil.

for #writeout via Daily Create

Talking poems, within the confines of city and concrete, the rough terrain where dandelions meet, the weeds shout back, in a verse of grit and grime; words find a way to survive

For #writeout

It's utter chaos in the berry-laden Mountain Ash trees today,

a yearly chattering Autumnal feeding frenzy that's now underway,

and ever time we wander near, to rake the leaves or get the mail

the winged visitors shout disapproval, then in a flock, flutter away

for #writeout