Here, at dawn, before the day has begun, the house is far from silent;
a sump pump flows; a neighbor starts the car; the dog walks on wooden floor; the fridge whistles and hums;
fingers on the keys, the sound of me, alone, typing this poem
for #writeout
In the dusk of the wild red leaves ... – Carl Sandburg
The stealth boy with hair as crimson as the woods of a changing season, disappears, or maybe only imagines he does, hoping his mop top camouflage against a game of hide and seek in the woods where his sisters are looking but not nearly noticing how different the world seems now even as the days begin to fade
for #WriteOut
We were at an apple orchard, gathering fruit (Cortland, Golden, Macoun, etc) as part of a annual family tradition each Autumn when I noticed a sign for the sale of Sunflowers. The paper was old, the ink faded by rain and sun. What remained of the flowers were droopy skeletons of summer's glory, a sort of cemetery of what had bloomed with no doubt magnificence just a few weeks back. I was tempted to pick one of the fallen flowers, but the sign still announced the sale of each flower for a cost of $2.50 a stem. I let the idea go, and left the ghosts of the Sunflower graveyard for the soil.
for #writeout via Daily Create
Talking poems, within the confines of city and concrete, the rough terrain where dandelions meet, the weeds shout back, in a verse of grit and grime; words find a way to survive
For #writeout
It's utter chaos in the berry-laden Mountain Ash trees today,
a yearly chattering Autumnal feeding frenzy that's now underway,
and ever time we wander near, to rake the leaves or get the mail
the winged visitors shout disapproval, then in a flock, flutter away
for #writeout
A painter's palette: imagining a canvas of changing colors
The green dress is gone, pigments fade with cold, dark nights; in morning, unclothed
A leaf must wonder where it is going, falling from branch limb to ground
When tomorrow comes, all will be different here as hues disappear
Crackle brittle brown - the soil always welcomes you with wide open arms
for #writeout
Limbs snarl, like a map that's contorted in a twisted mirror
The mangrove, gargantuan in its reach, envelopes a world
We're just travelers here, bound inside the looping shadows of a maze
for #MastoPrompt and #writeout
(me) I am root, unseen through time for most of the world's curious eyes, except by you, my tree
(ChatGPT) You are root, Hidden beneath the soil's dark heart, Yet in your presence, I find the start.
(me) I am tendrils, a connected network of information flow, where I am you, stories go
(ChatGPT) Together we weave, a tapestry grand, In the realm of stories, hand in hand.
(me) I am thread, stitching our shared past on an ancient loom, the rustling of leaves, we bloom
(ChatGPT) From the loom's timeless frame, our tale is spun, Two souls connected, together as one.
Written with ChatGPT in alternating verse a #writeout experiment
Help them move past the mirk and mire ...
— Willeena Booker https://twitter.com/WilleenaB/status/1693989524442055138
Summer rains stretch fingers into the bottoms of the riverbed,
a weathered troublemaker stirring up what's long been settled in
With eyes closed, then, we slumber along through cloudy waters, dreaming of currents and clarity
Then stuck feet find a footing, and a hand reaches from the shore -
Once more, your presence provides ballast in an otherwise unbalanced world
Covered, but with little protection, the small stream wanders on, unaware of our footfalls tapping a rhythm to the woods, singing a song like the skin of a drum
for #writeout