Lookin to catch some new words. Shade and rustling leaves sigh. The attribute my radar seeks. But time plays tricks as we both know. For every time my true love speaks.

Saturday, February 3, 2018. Circus, Budapest, 19 May 1920 Andre Kersetz. Brought to us by Kerry. What we see depends mainly on what we look for. You may be quiet in halls.

Nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands. OR SCREAM IN ALL CAPS. Or if you need a prompt you can check out one of the past prompts, like the Shadorma. The bar is open just for you.

In Search of the Natural Order. The days end with copper glints. As swifts scream out the balm of night. The drawing curtains, ever. On the windowsill the sphinxing cat.

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. The undertaking that a poem is. Me and my thoughts! Where I felt the Love. It looks like the WordPress site URL is incorrectly configured. Please check it in your widget settings. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page. A day is a playhouse of wonders.

Then, surrender, I must,. Rage across our valley,. Where we are to write a poem of exactly 44 words that must include the word FIRE.

A blog is to a writer what a canvas is to an artist. Taken at Bella La Vita. Sorrow is a beautiful country. Where you meet your destiny. Or the love of your life. Or trust in the lay of its land. Because its depth is as far as its width. And its jewel is disguised by darkness. You have to dig deep to mine its value.

Tales from a Sonoran Desert Classroom. Flags of three nations, Historic Downtown Yuma, Arizona. Photo 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher. I will be overseas until the 10th. A low-rider parked at a curb in Historic Downtown Yuma, Arizona. Photo 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher.

Posted August 9, 2015 by ManicDdaily. I will save you this once the word sussuration. Love poem of a sort. Murmur of the heart poem. The murmur of a stream too far to be sure. The murmur of frogs exchanging night. In deep-throated gulps that would seem rude. If they were not frogs, all throat. The murmur of our own legs,.

You have to say something, I say. Oatmeal, and he asks me,. In that way he has about him,. And I tell him I have to. He finishes his coffee,. His toast, and then. The National Poetry Writing Month. All of these pieces are drafts.