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Day 3
Found Poetry from source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews (pg 12-13 iBook version). The Facts Behind Icicles Momma was cut-velvet breathless, all diamond icicles — wouldn’t live two years. I know that now. It was early May, and she didn’t want whining, or crying. It would displace me. for PA’s…
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for Twiglet 120
There’s eternity in waves, as constant as a clock that never stops. A Ginsberg’s American Sentence for Twiglet #120
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Day 2
Found from source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews, pg 12-13 iBooks version. Stiff Upper Lips and Other Naff Myths Momma was cut-velvet breathless, all diamond icicles — wouldn’t live two years. I know that now. It was early May, and she didn’t want whining, or crying. It would displace me. …
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Day 1
Found in Prologue: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews. Also available on Tumblr Hope is Yellow. Like flowers. Yellow as sour gall. I hope I can write, grind the knife. I hope. for Writers’ Digest PA AprPAD Day 1: “morning” That Last Dream Before Waking behind closed eyes daybreak dreams are rising.…
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Found Poetry Remix and AprPAD 2019
Today is Day 1 of National Poetry Month. Two poems a day is target. I am participating in my favourite form of poetry: Found Poetry. Specific form: unrestricted remix. The source material is from “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews. I am also dipping in and out of Writers’ Digest PA’s AprPAD. This is…
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For Poetic Blooming’s Adventure
IN SEARCH OF APRIL As the sun breaks the cloudy wattle it reveals the high pitched green of spring. Everywhere, its emboldened brush is gilding everything. I forgot the thunder in birdsong, like innumerable feet that trod the ground. My eyes, less than wise, to what stars write for me. written for…
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For Wednesday’s Muse
Japanese Poetry Forms for Wednesday’s Muse #1 she is the branch furthest away from me now. just an occasional reminder, like a wind-flicker or a scent or a fold she left behind just before the trees went bare. For Wednesday Muse #1 poem form: mono no aware (mo.no-ah.way.ray) 5 lines depicting sadness at the passing of…
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For Sunday Whirl #396
A Nightjar in the Hawthornes I’m caught in the pull of a black pepper night. In a streaked chill that stings the moon. A nightjar sings, its breast swells with a song. A remix of clouds with stars. Sing, sing me your alchemy, and then stir the night. Sing in the spirit of life. …
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19 March 2019
Memories of a Wheel of Wind She was like that. A wheel of wind. My mother possessed the kitchen when she made bread. I watched in wonder, her softness of motion as she stood in a white floury cloud. Stretching dough. She’d slap her hands on her apron, flour dust rising like scattered smoke. Everything…
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15 March 2019 – American Sentence
I’m up for a bit of turmoil, like feeding paper to a pen Poetic Form: Allen Ginsberg’s “American Sentence” 17-syllables
It's Still Life 