Even unplugged, you remain a live wire, an electric eel artist playing at the edges - the one who always feels the pulse of paint on paper, the breaker of circuits

for #mastoprompt

It’s a wonder at the ways so many of our words seem to lean up against dull, that slacker cousin of the vibrant, the invisible, hiding in-between the hue of rainbows where well-worn rust gathers rather than gold, where we watch the young in motion while pondering the old

#mastoprompt

Fire, the kids say, and they don’t mean the heat

they mean, Fire, as in something so cool, nothing competes

for #mastoprompt

A maelstrom of ideas is what pauses the poet before a blank slate

this storm hesitates, for the calm, an eye for the words that just can’t wait

for #mastoprompt

She traces shadows in lines of each and every face

the ink-stained pages of an artist’s loving embrace

for #mastoprompt

The gears of the world grind us – the injustice of the world, blinds us - the shape of our deeds finds us hoping for something better each and every morning

for #mastoprompt

Resist the urge to pluck every maddening dandelion up by its roots

before their yellow blooming suns have really begun -

have patience – for these bees need the time, and the day is still young

for #mastoprompt

All of us carry pieces of it from there to here

some irrational fear

an intangible object that can't or won't or refuses to disappear

for #mastoprompt

Rough edges always linger – a hard thought, aloft – a patient writer seeks a landing – a place for planting – where the ground is soft

for #mastoprompt

We always marvel at the wild seeds of flowers on the move

the ones who refuse to stay put, who visit cousins and neighbors and brothers and sisters,

reaching down to sleep until woken, their presence spoken in whispers of the soil

for #mastoprompt