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/

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

for #OpenWrite https://www.ethicalela.com/scars/

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/

You see the whole of things, Charles Wallace, while we capture only the softest of edges

It's almost as if you're invisibly threaded in connection to your sister, her thoughts in the night like starlight,

and yet, you fall silent near strangers, observant as always, always noticing the slightest twitches in the fabric of time

You might do well to learn to wear humility as a blanket, for the universe depends upon you

a poem inspired by A Wrinkle In Time

for #OpenWrite

Beneath snow, ice — an invisible layer of danger

Tread carefully where nature is known to harden in form

We wander this world always on the edge of collapse

for #OpenWrite

Worse than silence, the tenor sax sounds wounded, like an old cat in the corner of a room - out of tune and out of sorts – my breath, of course, out of sync with its notes: it's broke but can be fixed; it's this I think about in the days it lays open on the workshop table, the technician like surgeon taking my Martin apart – reduced to pads and keys and levers and springs – things just scattered about - piece by piece by piece, until that moment of re-connection, when repairs have been complete

for #OpenWrite about healing and hurt (Martin is a brand of tenor saxophone)