The morning’s window songs become something enchanting, the bird choir singing the day into light
for #mastoprompt
The morning’s window songs become something enchanting, the bird choir singing the day into light
for #mastoprompt
She hands me the note, and I play it, for what’s more magical than making the music she sat down, with pencil and paper, and wrote
for #mastoprompt
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
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