Mind wanders into the hollow escapades of the past. As words stumble, crumble, splattering in figments onto the parchment. Scattered, scrambling together to form a coherent set of lines. Freeze paned, lead hovers ready to cross, scratch out. Pink embraces paper as the words scream out before they vanish, like they never lived. A sense of calm fills the air as gray slowly dances across the white horizon. Mdash; Leave a comment.

Nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands. OR SCREAM IN ALL CAPS. Or if you need a prompt you can check out one of the past prompts, like the Shadorma. The bar is open just for you.

The Socratic Use of Irony. Last week I drove 126 miles to Vermont forbreakfast. Yes, just for breakfast. My wife and kids thought I was a quite daft for driving all that way for only 2 hours. Well there was another motive.

Women Find Their Voices in Centuries-Old Forms.

Toasting Resolutions, a fictive romp. I was emphasizing movement, and the reference was how Emma Bovary moved; I tried the technique and out came Toasting Resolutions. Originally posted on Sorrygnat, World Citizen.

Help for the wannabe artist. What do you need for art? The Great Coxwell Barn. Last week, my friend Elaine said she would kidnap me for a couple hours to take me somewhere special.

It was all wired up and ready. To go, until it ran out of self. This poem is a scar. Too soon, swooned low. By a rising crimson sky. This poem has no sense. Of place, no where. Waiting for one last good. Circadian rhythm in b flat. Lie loose and cold and worn,. With the sky, and wonder.