A place to gather words before they get lost.
Depending on when you met me – you might have found me:
lost inside the moment of practicing my saxophone, lonely but not alone
writing little poems in a yellow notebook I kept tucked out of sight
teaching myself guitar, searching for a spark, somewhere inside the dark
turning poems into songs, singing words, ever so softly, even I could barely hear
for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/depending-on-when-you-met-me/
You might have liked me to be a child of sticks, of snare shots, sizzle, and coordinated drum kicks
Instead, you had me, a curious kid with fingers on the keys, a tongue on mouthpiece and reed
We all find our way in
for #OpenWrite
My fingers, caked in mud, removing Winter's weeds as I ponder a patch of lilies
A patch near driveway black, I too often forget where they are; my fingers, caked in mud
until the days I'm reminded of the remains of Winter's coat, as I ponder a patch of lilies
and notice among the dead, the determined vines pricker my fingers, caked in mud
But nothing short of blood stops my in my task as I ponder a patch of lilies
and remember last year's grace in blooms of tiger yellow; my fingers, caked in mud, as I ponder a patch of lilies
for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/villanelle-on-the-vine/
If every raindrop were a run, batted by clouds, cheers would be allowed
for Algot
I am from whole notes, a sound languishing over time, melody on the prowl for rhyme
I am from half-notes, broken apart like seeds, by a need to always quicken the pace
I am from quarter notes, articulation dots scratched along the top, reminding me to pause, breathe, stop
I am from eighth notes, a hand over your shoulders, a curved slur blurring us together in a riff
I am from sixteenth notes, in rapid succession; I disappear into the air before you have the chance to hear me
for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/where-im-from-again/
A hammer to the head — it's not what you think — but even so, years after, I thought about it, often, late at night, remembering the fall, the cry, the call, as I lay awake in bed
On paper, at least, a travel itinerary's flawlessly built on possibilities: a leap in imagination of side alleyways, riverside wanderings, museum galleries, shops and eateries, and a language to wrestle your tongue into submission
for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/oh-the-places-youll-go/
Imagine a world of cloud rolling above the hills, alone, but beyond a crowd of daytime daffodils, with petals reaching towards trees, both, swaying to the breeze
a “borrowed rhyme” poem for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/borrowed-rhymes/ words borrowed from I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud by William Wordsworth https://discoverpoetry.com/poems/william-wordsworth/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud/
A moment of breathing, in the woods
Stop – note the uncurling green branch buds;
this small grove of elm trees awakens
for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/when-spring-speaks-in-tricubes/
I am wander a page spelunker wrapping fingers around verse immersed inside some other poet's writing finding something forgotten or missed a glance a sound a thought a kiss
for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/the-verse-collector/