Whose woods these are
springs right to mind
as writer I admit
I find
I’m compelled to sigh
my muse is smitten
by words I wish
that I had written.
Thanks more to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Tag Archives: writer
Connections: February 8.18
Memo to brain:
heed this sign
a walk becomes plod
hunched and bovine.
It behooves you to skip
stop dragging your feet
tap mental toes
to some irregular beat.
Indulge in some jigs
whirlies and prances
a writer fares ill
if her brain never dances.
(And maybe that is true for all of us.)
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Connections: March 11.17
This is the writer me
in aspect toothachy
I feel all hewn and flat
where are my muses at?
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Connections: July 23
Connections: June 15
What is voice?
I have wondered.
How do words become
voice?
Then I read the words
of Emily Doe
soundless to my ears
but in my head
jackhammer
chewing concrete
Rachel
weeping
green-black thunder
of torrid summer storm
voice
He raped a writer.
Words are all she has
voice
anguished
solo
over the chorus
of the bloody writhing
the siren-screaming
together
now
coming at us.
Words are all we have.
Will they be
voice?
