Each month, write a new collection.
this momentbetween sleepand wakefulnessI lie stillwithin myimaginationenvelopedin the dreamnot ready yetto approachso calledreality
hard to choose
yeah, this one is very strong. great line breaks.
I liked all of your work TT This one feels familiar and says so much
Love this Tom! This was a strong and beautiful choice.
Thank you Sean. Thank you John. It was fun. I have been wanting to kick into gear writing about every day for a while.
OutsideOn a swing. Alone becauseThe cousin has gone insideFor some reason. She is my onlyRelative who is my age thatI know about and I trust herBecause she knows about grassAnd going barefoot. I point my toesTo go up on the swing. Lean backShe showed me this. And then I carefullyJump off… a skill I just learned.I have never seen night come in overThe houses, til now. The grass grows coldUnder my feet and there are the sounds of Other children playing in other yards.A star, two stars. Then the older cousin— The mother of the one I was just talking about —Calling me. I linger and wonder what it would be like toPlay outside all the time and to never wearShoes and to see time pass and be aloneBut also beConnected.
one of my happier ones. thanks for this amazing journey!
Yes, I like that one. It was your first, and inspired me to write a swing poem. I have another one on my head, but that one hasn't moved past the feeling stage.
Here is a favorite swing poem:The SwingBY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSONHow do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue?Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do!Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide,Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside—Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown—Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down!
Yes I loved this one too. Thanks for the chance to work with you Stephanie You Are Amazing !
Great poem Stephanie. I'm really honored that you've been doing this!
Twenty-four hour passIt was a cool night, my step-father came to pick me up for the week-endLeaving the hospital, where I stayed, for my health, mentally locked-upVoluntarily admitted at age twenty-four or five.They were kind to me, as we drove down town, and I could not help fromFeeling excited, seeing all the lights, the reds,and yellows, the greens andThe blues flickering, shining, in the pitch darknessI said, "look at them, the lights are so bright!"I was not let out of the hospital very frequentlywith the policy and circumstances surroundingthe time I spent there at night, never seeing thenight life or any lights, for that matterIt was as though the experience was exciting, but thenSad, I only had a pass for overnight
This one really hit me Daryl It was great reading your work
that third verse = amazing.
Thank-you. Hopefully continuing with July work, see you there!
Great work Daryl, and I'm really grateful that you're going into July too!
This is great - very moving. I have enjoyed your work Daryl.
Mingling With Bodie's GhostsThe heat is so thick, it feels like you can chew itBaring down, I can almost reach up and touch the sunThere's no wind, to swirl the dust along the main streetThe weeds cry out, their silent screams for mercyThe tour begins, at the old Shell gas pump at the end of the roadMy eyes wide, I fixate immediately on the rusted bullet holesI'm surrounded by the clicks of cameras, capturing the lost momentThe echos of technology, are strolling down the streets of BodieWe stop at the old saloon, its crusted windows holding back timeThere are dozens of abandoned bottles, at different levels of emptinessI can hear the clinking of the glass, the shuffling of boots against woodThe clack, clack, clack of the faded roulette wheel, and I am lost in itAs I move on to the hotel, giggles and whispers drift down from the balconyLadies of the night, begin to catcall the miners as they pass on the streetA hand covers my eyes, while another ushers me past the harlotsMy face burns hot, not from the sun, but from knowledge of the forbiddenFurther down, I stop and mourn the burned remains of the churchIts bell still ringing, calling the faithful and long departed, to massFaintly I hear singing, the choir lifting its hollow voice to the LordThe words are forgotten, and yet somehow can still be feltI'm diatracted by voices, coming from the general storeLaughter and cussing and dickering, as men buy and sell their goodsI pick up the pace, sensing a tension in the stagnant aira shot rings out, but of course, there is no shooterThe clatter of carriages and clomping of hooves excites meI can smell the stench of horse apples, sweat and black powderThe jingling of coin, the creaking of scales, the striking of matchesI drink in the music, a symphony of wild west life, and I am lost in itAt the end of the road, the tour abruptly endsThe voices of the present, rush back into my earsI stand before the cemetery, with its cockeyed gates and worn headstonesAnd can't help but feel, as though a part of me is buried in those graves☆I had a hard time deciding what the best one was, so I went with my favorite one:
a great choice Molly This one took me right along with youThanks for your work You are a wonderful writer
some great language combinations here. "cockeyed gates" is particularly effective.
You guys have no idea how much I appreciate you! I was soooo nervous to post here. I have yet to published, and have no poetry experience, so I went into this, expecting to struggle. But you all have made this a great experience. I can't wait to get started on July!!
The weeds cry out, their silent screams for mercy, I love it!!
You had a lot of great ones, but this was the one I was hoping you'd chose for today!
Love the imagery. I was right there with you. I remember going to Body in '65 when I was 10 and you brought me right back and into the town when it was alive.
Eagle RockIt didn’t help. I drove by it nearly every day.Eagle Rock, they named a fucking town after it.It’s not hard to see why. It’s almost like someonecarved a half-assed eagle near the top just toremind me she didn’t live there anymore, as if to say“See this crappy eagle, she’s gone. She flew away.”
awesome. Love the humor and down to earth feeling.
hilarious. "crappy eagle" gets me every time.
Yeah, this is a fantastic poem! Truly wonderful!
Thanks very much for this program. It really inspired me to create. Even though I ran out of steam at the end, it was really great being a part of it.OBLIVIONThey found it in another of a series of endless, moonless, starless nights,In the utterness at the bottom of a cold volcano,Rumors spreading in coarse syllables through huddled cavern clumps.Standing hunched together and moving by sound,Following the hollow ticking of their teethAnd the familiar rot of flaking skin,Arrays of nerves tilted up, tasting the air,They entered the asymmetric tunnel,Walls of hardened magma sculpted by ages of pressureInto glassy folds the color of amnesia,Descent brought them to the foot of a carbon fiber stairwell,Articulated and mechanizedLike the segmented spiral of a black silica shell,With no light to reflect in the mirrored material,No way for them to see their own faces in the glossy surface.Eyes white, Toothless,They followed ancient corridors down by intuition and racial memoryBeneath the paralytic crust of crippled Earth,Through chambers beneath the labyrinths of empty aquifers,Circumventing collapsed reservoirsCrushed closed by the weight of deserts,Feeling their way to a subterranean lake long dead.Into a bed of gritty silt they grasped,Disused sockets carelessly directedWith no sense of orientation.Inner ears numb to vertigo were not consultedBy calcified nerve clusters, devolving brainstems.The air they breathed was breathed again.Many twitching digits contracted compulsively in contact with each other,Compelled by latent curiosity to unwrap the heavy layers:Disintegrating prehistoric sable,Pristine synth fabrics and pliant phyto-weave,All pulled back in turn to expose a core of broken husks,Proterozoic chitin streaked a rich and oily chocolate brown,Once plunged forever in the deepWhere was no memory of light, no echo of color, no concept of sight. Anachronistic instruments peeling the brittle layersRemoved from the center one spherical obsidian containerWith gyroscopic qualities. It shifted to the touchOf feeble neural extremities,Turning, manipulating, with lizard cunning, Dormant synapses stimulating vestigial cranial matter,Until, the code decrypted, the globe came apart,Metal segments separating with a musical pingTo reveal a dark kernel: a polished bead of unknown material.They beheld it there,Whispering possibilities,Articulating forgotten hopesOf re-igniting stars and stoking once again tectonic engines.Awakening,But then it droppedAnd bouncedAnd was lostAs they tore themselves asunder in the bowels of the world.
That's a great one Mark. I hope you send these out for publication too!