Empty all but pulse and blood from who you are and hope to be. Let drum, whose primal name is heartbeat, prime your pulse. Then walk. "How to Dance" first appeared in a collection entitled Dazed Part of Light, by Lee Robison.
The Last Lost River rises from waning glaciers, snowmelt, and springs in the Deception Mountains of Montana and drops precipitously and swiftly, with an anger and fury that only the most avid fishermen dare challenge, into the valley that shares its name. There it slowly changes character becoming first a rugged swift stream. Then, just … Continue reading She is that Gullible or the Story of a River
She’s no mealymouth art, that damned mother of wordbirth— nothing fickle about that old tart. Honest as the odor of earth true as you in all your affairs, she is nothing—only your worth. How you carry her loamy dares to amend the alter altar you’ve built of your damaged despair will tell only the soily … Continue reading For Student Poet Dreaming of Inspiration
His flute was capable of other wonderful sounds, even whole orchestras of lovely sound. But whatever the sheet music told him and wand-waver orchestrated, Ole Clive always managed to make sure C6-very-sharp was one of the sounds his flute managed to tweet.
“Saloon was a fancy name for the place. Saloon had associations by etymology that suggested class. This was not a class place. The squeak-hinged door had squeaked the same tune for forty years—opening-to-closing, six days a week. (Closed Sundays, except for select parties and football games.) A twenty-four inch, dust-dimmed TV hung from the ceiling … Continue reading How Delmare Wrote his Next
Like imprinted ducklings— they follow her swagger across campus— these poetry undergrads Prepared in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt: sequacious
Long walk, looking for the muse Home at last! “Take your shoes off!” She is mopping floors. In response to the RDP word prompt fungible
The link below resurrects the writelee.com post most appreciated by the readers. Even In Darkness
When I pass a still pond of water, especially during the spring when the Frogs are sounding, I think of Basho's poem Old pond frog jump in plop I have not read it in the original Japanese--cannot is more accurate--but have read that in the Japanese the poem is such an onomatopoeic poem that sound … Continue reading Frog Pond Haiku
The first thing Phill Uperdone noticed that early November morning was that yellow was everywhere. The next thing he noticed is that there was no purple. The studio was a vast wash of yellow ocher and cadmium yellow (deep, medium, and pale); there were lemon, Indian, golden and gamboge yellows, and these were smeared, sprayed, … Continue reading Phil Paints Tighty-Whiteys (Unfortunately)