Whose woods these are I may no longer know as my shoes dip heavy through new-fallen snow
The dog's beyond me, on the trail of a scent as I follow her tracks, in silence, seemingly sent
from somewhere above; trees grabbing midwinter sky as I hike through the gap between the ground, and I
for #openwrite with hat nod to Robert Frost (of course) http://www.ethicalela.com/out-back-a-form/
Let's meet somewhere in the music
in the space between the staves and sound vibrations of the treble clef
Let's meet somewhere where chords connect, where your notes complement mine
in the rhythm of the movement of the signature of the time
Let's meet somewhere at the start,
and then let's meet again at the end:
this joyous singing heart
for #openwrite
Songlet
Feel free, she told me, to remember me, as tree,
to see me rooted in dirt, the unsettled place where love clings to hurt
So I sung her song - I still sing her song - so I would never forget,
for why make a sonnet, queries the poet of rules, when lines break beautiful, into songlet?
for #openwrite
Scars show healing, too, knife lines tracing wounded worlds, places of exposure in which fingers brush up against the past, the skin always sharing stories, with jagged imperfections etched deep inside the heart
for #openwrite
Awake, when sleep departs, listening to rhythms of night, the landscape inscrutable but for some small melody still yet lingering: mere gossamer and translucence and then gone
for #openwrite
There was a time when the crowd hushed, when all of our eyes watched the ball flung into motion
with such beautiful flight, its shape slightly wobbled in the air flow imbalance of impossibility
It's that breath before that I remember the most, the beauty of the possibility of perfect reception,
and not the drop, when the world stopped, and the magic of the moment, broken open
for #openwrite
What is hope
but a rope for which to climb
a chance to take our time
a moment in which we find
something within us that brings us together
for #openwrite and #clmooc
The shelves have become barren of those silly cards, those throw-away phrases that always tried so hard to make us laugh, in aisles of the grocery store and boutique shops and kiosks in the mall, manufactured thanks spit out by cold machines, while I'm still one of those few who settles down in the quiet, pen in hand, to carve out poems from the bones of memory, a crinkled paper-cut of words tucked into the folds of your jacket pocket
for #openwrite
There's no longer time for 13 ways of looking at anything anymore, so let that blackbird fly free and kick the stone back to soil, and maybe put this poem down and get out there to work the world into a place where we can spend our days looking at it all over again in 13 ways, or more
There was never anything so delicate as the frosting on the cake my mother used to make — hand-whipping the cream in the big metal bowl, the sound of the kitchen tools banging out a birthday song, us watching from the edge of the door opening, hoping for an invitation to taste before anything went to waste
for #openwrite