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6th April
The last grain of sand slid through the hourglass. 'We gave Time time, now to blow glass bubbles that hold eternity.'
7th April
The rabbits and chickens and donkeys and priests and pagans and bohemians met at the local hall to work on a joint quilt for the sick kids.
8th April
The push to be writing poems, but I'm too busy experiencing them.
12th April
The time would come when the gong would sound and the resonation would free all the trapped birds in her chest.
14th April
Life gorges on her unhappiness and she blooms fountains of tears to drink from. This bound warrior, this nurturer of sorrow.
16th April
'We want the real thing!' they shouted at the dreamweaver.
16th April
We have hung out our angst and stockpiled many leaden hearts. Surely that's worth something. Realize one dream before we die.
25th April
Hushing the wind chimes; moving day.
lily © 2012
@myarspoetica (poetry only)
@comettailrider (interactive, rambling)
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My muse was quiet during March. Perhaps they knew I was packing up my jigsaw puzzle life getting ready for one herculean move. The rest of my poetry either escaped by the skin of their pinky, or could be found floating above my bed at night when it would come freely and effortlessly. This often happens when I'm exhausted.
28 February
View from a high branch: anxious stallholders, chatty women share recipes, philosophers with furrowed brows, a little girl holds a pinwheel.
5 March
The floor started to undulate & everything she owned rippled out of the door. All that was left was a shard of the moon & a droplet of sun.
8 March
I am wandering in the land of stories. I drag a sledge-hammer to break open the rocks that hold them.
15 March
She drew crosshatch squares all over the walls of the house. Why are you doing that? To give them something to see through.
27 March
Everything goes back home when I sleep.
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lily © 2012
@myarspoetica (poetry only)
@comettailrider (interactive, rambling)
April poems coming soon.
1 Jan
The sink was full of pots and dishes and lipstick stained glasses. The cutlery drawer was empty. She sips from her half full coffee mug.
1 Jan
I believe in you. The words circled her head and came to rest in her palm. Outside in a window-box, the sapling uncurls a new leaf.
2 Jan
With the heatwave expected to last three more days, she puts out water for the birds, and keeps her bath full.
5 Jan
Tonight a song entered the room of souls. A song about a little girl sleeping with a night light on, and lavender.
6 Jan
She weaves smiles through the jasmine vine, and breathes innocence upon the swaying pine tree.
9 Jan
Surefooted on the deck, he looked out over the sea. The sun will shine through eventually he told himself, even as the icebergs closed in.
(for Captain Paul Watson of the Sea Shepherd fighting for our ocean, whales and dolphins).
9 Jan
The morning sun shone through the fraying dusty curtain. Ashes in a dark musty cupboard.
11 Jan
Our words rise a little off the ground like a kite. Sometimes the wind heeds the call home of mother.
11 Jan
It rained wild at dawn, the storm lasted all day. She sat in her chair at dusk & watched the sunlight tiptoe over the court. A dove coos.
13 Jan
What they really wanted to say was in the #hashtags #hashtagosophy
13 Jan
You are original like a snowflake, and deep as an iceberg. She had fallen out with similes and lived in the hot countryside.
14 Jan
A sleeping tambourines jingle. A drum tuned & unplayed. A heart ready for love.
14 Jan
The rash was still on her feet after three days. She wondered if shed brushed against something while listening to the sorrow-birds.
19 Jan
The long winding road is forking, weathervanes spin & spin. Rain clouds; the stormy waves of the sky. Were a long way from the city lights.
20 Jan
I just want to stop! she cried out in the carpark. And she sat and let her body unfold, a passenger on the slow train of time.
28 Jan
The dark mountain released the weary traveler. The train snaked slowly through the valley, lighting up towns along the way.
lily © 2012
twitter:
@myarspoetica
@comettailrider
It's NaNoWriMo. It's November, the month where writers whip their muses into shape, hoping to write that novel or poem that will rocket them out of the slums of their life.
Today is the 9th of November, and by all hoops and porpoises I should have written 9 poems at twitter. Though 5 is nice, in that half of 10 kind of way
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September 13th 2011 12:15
We dwell in the roots to understand the branches that seek the sky.
The robot pulled down the blankets, tucked in the children & read them a story of a time when people ate together at tables and laughed
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Death sat on her shoulder hitching a ride everywhere. She would put it down when it grew heavy and made it walk on its own.
Few words for the way i am feeling, i'm letting the madness take me to the garden. Count the i's, give me a flower for every one
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The Power of Gentleness and The Slow Manifesto. Two brave titles.
Threading a silver hair, she wove it through her childhood reveries
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So my muse was slothing around my house eating peanuts and making a deep impression upon my couch, when I stumbled upon this project through twitter called A River of Stones, the idea to write one small stone a day for all of January. The intention is to really pay attention to one small thing, and write a stone, a small piece of writing about your observation (eg. a sentence, a small poem, a haiku).
I've written 24 'stones' so far, with a week to go. It's been harder than I first thought to really settle into a moment and write down how it feels to be fully 'there' without wandering off to dreaming of which I tend to do, my instinct falling to daydream when writing poetry
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Comment by Lily
on FLOODS IN BRISBANE
Ars Poetica