When the words come,
I think them clichéd
The good ones feel like that at first
like this bit about
MY DAYS

Ha, at night after glasses of red wine I pull the books down from the shelf
and read their opening lines

How we are drawn in,
then crushed by these first words —
better by these than the final ones
and the rush of silence that follows

You know, before this poem was the urge to dance
a feeling so strong
it had to go somewhere

but of course I have a job to go to in the…

We were lost before we knew it / social distancing put words to / our fear magnified / phone calls, fist bumps, fast gatherings / a salve for the day before / when our distance was rose-colored / not so concrete (6 feet)/ we will heal these wounds / now we can feel them

Thanks to Trapeta Mayson, the Poet Laureate of Philadelphia, for the prompt, as well as Lehigh University and the Global Citizenship Education Conference for hosting her talk and discussion, “How Poetry Helps us Reframe, Reimagine and Rebuild.”

My mind is color fading into cold

/

I leave and enter rooms

as I end sentences:

without punctuation

/

The promise of deep calm

draws me to subtraction

/

I read to rest my thoughts

/

Writing should tear me apart;

The less I have,

The closer I get to silence

Our friends at Anam Cara Experiences (thanks, Payam Salehi) are offering a special invite to Curiosity Never Killed the Writer followers for their next 5-week “Online Writing Quest.” I have not yet had the opportunity to join a quest to experience it for myself, but I plan to in the future. It sounds supportive and so perfectly aligned with our publication that I wanted to help spread the word. This is NOT a sales pitch; I simply loved the mission of the community.

Payam has shared with me that during the quest you’ll set your own writing goal, be matched…

The push & pull
of terror & teeth chatter,
bones
ache,

Every place
is dark & deep

The crows caw

Corn husks
& honk of geese

Fall is here —
we warm our
hands,
hold
light
so close,

watch
the moon
count the stars

The days
are short
& fall
into sleep

I will show you
sound of cicada,
that steady buzz hum song

taste of summer heat
on the tongue

the sweet grass
green meadow
breeze

Nothing is precise
or pristine
So why should poetry
falter

Ours is an aging world
What’s new is old
in a moment

Tattered fabric,
fading color,
curling edges

The stink of summer
we take
with the light,
languid days,
these firefly nights

Echoes of a dream —
not the thing itself

Blackbird 
on crumbling roof.Blackbird 
against storm cloud,
moving through the sky.Blackbird
you are unlike
the other birds—calling dark heart,
damp wood
to mind.

Long nights and
cold nights
linger lately
into day.We are grateful
for the
bit of sun
and gentle air,the slush
that wets our feet
on our walk.It feels good
to be outside
with the birds.