Some writers work as word jugglers
levitation thieves with white space in their hands -
gravity shifts, fonts drift, the story always changes as
words drop, rearranged for meaning and surprise:
it makes for a night's possibility of applause
for #mastoprompt
She peels the corner off the poem to reveal her wayward heart
but worries about reaction, for when the mocking starts,
the writer in her withdraws; she's prone to coming right apart
for #mastoprompt
With chalk, before the rains, we scratch words against brick into a sentence framing poems, designed to disappear:
I read our words out loud, whispered dust on my lips, so that you might hear
for #mastoprompt
Rusted bars, chains and broken swings
a small ladder missing rungs and other things
The derelict structure sits like a moment in time
Somewhere, an adult remembers a nursery rhyme
for #mastoprompt
We'll still write our origin story, in brittle leaves, and bark, composted soil,
rotten timber, forgotten flowers; peat bogs before the prospects of oil
Some stories, forgotten; Some stories, remembered
Where paper bleeds ink, we recapture a life, lived, inside the recoil
for #mastoprompt
Flat landscapes of fields with little architecture but wheat
Monotonous traveling, hours wandering through lands we'll eat
for #mastoprompt
Winding paths lead to legendary trees -
long rooted in dirt, dug down beneath
layers of time's fallen pieces and debris -
where we pause: take a moment's quiet to breathe
for #mastoprompt
Moments etched in sand, just before ocean waves crash and erase; priceless ephemeral treasures leaving us lingering at the edge of little more than memory's trace
for #mastoprompt
A verse brings us closer through words and replies
Averse knots a fence dividing truth from lies
for #mastoprompt