Hour Nineteen – Text prompt Write a poem describing your surroundings as inarticulately as possible but maintaining just a tiny bit of the truth.   Of Scottish Summers If you live in Glasgow and look out of the window, You’d see all that is to…

“Tall Tales”   burning light from crystal skulls   the Poetess, picks up her quill   words, trickle from muses   cards chosen through messages   clarities revealed compliments given   her eyes well   talent they claim beautifully interesting

sultry, hot the unmade bed where I have lain this night each poem a story of you. imagined and real unreal surreal true. the sun burns, a fierce white heat that emits no light.  

Hour Seventeen I am convinced flies have genetic memory to the swatter- dashing through the air landing upon naked skin crawling a constant hum of buzzing afflicting my quiet. I pick up the swatter and the nerve-grinding melody ceases. I scan the room and cajole…

Hour Seventeen I am convinced flies have genetic memory to the swatter- dashing through the air landing upon naked skin crawling a constant hum of buzzing afflicting my quiet. I pick up the swatter and the nerve-grinding melody ceases. I scan the room and cajole…

Hour Eighteen – Text Prompt Write a poem about a haunting, real, or imagined, detailed or abstract. Image Prompt – Ravens and Crows   You always know, when you see a crow Of the powers that they own For those who die, are unable to…

three ravens somehow : out of the shadows : three black birds : hover : the first we have seen : if indeed they are even there : for they float : on air : without sound : almost without movement : & do not…

“Don’t You Know Me”   what will  remembered of me   will there be moments where my spirit  will be called   a generation, maybe two living   the rest is ancestry   our souls, when they return will they still choose to know me…

Lost in Oblivion This digital age has become an undoing Of communication and of common sense Whole words whittled down to mete fragments of lingo And at youthful minds own expense The kids of today have lost their direction Eyes deeply buried into their phones…

I used to hate crows, scavengers of the earth squawking, snatching, swamping the skies when one died, shot by that stray bullet frightening us into the house. But then they said that crows were good that when they eat the food offered to the dead…