Hour Twenty-one – Text Prompt Write a poem that starts and ends with the word running.   Captain Haddock Dunning   Running a tight ship like he was wont to do, Barking command till he was blusterly blue. Poor old Captain Haddock Dunning The men were…

Hour Twenty Inspiration= “Cluster One” Pink Floyd 5:43 Hot are the rivers running through scaled eyes blinded by the serpentine motivations and macabre machinations of the world of today every day lacking the promise of tomorrow. Lord, hear our prayers as we silently wilt our…

Listening to the music you left behind is like trying to send letters to a stranger in a house that won’t be built for centuries and there is something to be said for the level of tenacity or pure dedication coursing through veins that won’t…

Hour Twenty – Text Prompt: Write a poem about a routine or ritual that is part of your life. It can be something like making coffee every morning, or something like attending religious services once a week.   Dugga Dugga   Not sure how or…

Progress is progress – you’ve got this and you truly are capable of so much more than you ever seem to realize; but that said, you owe me a salsa with time and a tango with potential –   don’t put me on hold again,…

Hour Nineteen 3:45 Dizdain Form Will you hold my hand as time passes on, or will you let go and lead me to fall? Will you remain with me in breaking dawn, or will you balk and lead me to nightfall? Will you love above…

Hour Eighteen 3993 Sun-stroked gardens season stained carpets of variegated color- the clean scent of greenery and herbs a pleasant arousal to the senses. The Chickweeds gather in droves clucking away with banter cleaving to the Cleavers until Evening Primrose. Goats Rue the interruption while…

Storm Salty air blows around in circles The breeze picks up seaweed from sand The current reacts to the gusts By crashing to the shore Seafoam swirls the rocks Shells dig in deep Safe from harm Black clouds Storm

It is midnight now – the witching hour I am drinking honeyed whiskey and writing in something other then obsidian ink – so clearly whatever is haunting me now is not you is not cinnamon or orange juice.   I am not sobbing about the…

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…