Oh, Ant, you vex me, the way you crawl your way through our wires and circuits to climb our wall
Ant, I admire you, your tenacity, the way you work tirelessly for the colony
Oh, Ant, you annoy me, for if it was only you, and not all of you, it might even be okay
but day after day, there you are, Ant, a little smudge with legs, moving endlessly
for #VerseLove
Quiet, like rice in a jar, a wisp of the Nine, the tail dust of a tumbling star, the soft whisper of a cloud, cosmic particles ordered, afar - we arrive with closed eyes, never knowing where we are
inspired by a Wisp Of Cloud Nine https://www.theoppositeshop.com/product/wisp-of-cloud-nine/12?si=true
for #VerseLove
In a week, my empty suitcase and I returned.
from 'My Life Was The Size Of My Life' by Jane Hirshfield https://poets.org/poem/my-life-was-size-my-life
Lost, I thought, lost in thought, I thought I lost it all but no, I hadn't - my odds and ends of a life had only been misplaced, maybe borrowed; something to blame for something I couldn't name – not stuff merely stolen, only, I thought: lost, and later, found, but at what cost?
Audio: https://sodaphonic.com/audio/9NVpaURhezj8LNJvWmF6
for #VerseLove
If the rest of what you read from this point on, is true, then this is probably false:
Poetry might yet save the world Poetry might save the reader Poetry might save the writer Poetry might yet save ourselves Poetry might just be scattered words, snippets heard
Notice the hedging - it's the ink-line of poets threading the line, damn near every single time
for #verselove
Balanced at the top of the mountain, looking down in silence, no words filled the gap, no words needed, as we drank in the valley
a Tanka of a moment for #verselove
We settle into our seats as the orchestra of quiet begins
to play inside the living room - a mix of Cage and Copeland -
our fingers tapping in time together, light drum skins, we begin a rhythm
for #verselove
While Bill Martin Waits
v, too busy chatting with z, didn't even see the coconut tree, missed it by a mile and so it was left to c to find v and then z, and bring them both back to the coconut tree, only to realize that b, d and g were now lost, too, you see, and so what a mess it was that morning with Bill Martin waiting at the coconut tree
with apologies to Bill Martin (and his co-writer John Archambault) and the letters of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom
for #verselove
Pensive thoughts on the Frost Trail, near where the named one taught, but what?
My journal remains vacant this morning, thinking of walls, and farms, and plots of land
and squabbles within, the metaphors of plow, until a raft of sunlight hits the rock, and then I write
a poem of something lost, inspired by a quiet moment on the trail named for the poet, Robert Frost
for OpenWrite #VerseLove
On this morning, I pay attention to the rain -
the way these words fall to Earth
and return once again.
In a moment of pause and repose,
we remember the way, when
poems connect us even as time comes to a close
for #verselove