Right on the edge of the night, the dawn stalks,
perhaps turning time finite,
the sky white.
[daily log: walking, 8km]
Right on the edge of the night, the dawn stalks,
perhaps turning time finite,
the sky white.
[daily log: walking, 8km]
Happiness an abstract yearning…
wonder what it means.
Then you know the world is turning,
seeing how time's engine's burning,
mood is caught, careens.
If you write down enough words, taking care
to craft them, at last some verbs
become birds.
Try to dream a world? I can't. Nothing comes. A world is vast.
Clouds of crystalline and silver breathe across the landscapes, crafting angels made of sunlight.
No movement. No snow. Stars. Cold air. Bitter wind. Stones. Ice on the sidewalk.
A bowl of noodles suggests stability. But it's not so stable. They get eaten.
[daily log: walking, 1km]
What city is this? Chaos made of many streets. A strip of cold grass.
sounds that fail to form words, but just spill out like torrential rain - at some moments quiet incoherent murmurings, but then drumming against the walls, aggressive, challenging all meanings
The moon is orange. Not quite full. Autumn waning... Frost lines the puddles.
So I left my home to walk to work, saw wayward puffs of snow, spinning and dancing in the strong wind. A gray sky added rain. The rain turned to snow then turned to rain turned to snow turned to rain.
With my angry words deployed, and yelling, I ranted like some annoyed, mad android.
All-seeing: alligator hovering, like some god-like creator, but greater.
Around me, the world unfurls itself. I watch with curiosity: Colors are bright and sublime, people speak streams of words, always new meanings. But when I eat, it's so sad: food is bland.
Sometimes sleep comes but then leaves just as fast, and I'm left with what night weaves... the mind grieves.
[daily log: walking, 7.5km]
with devastation the gods showed their wrath till only dust remained, and drifted bits of snow were heaped at time's old edges then.
The sky's fingers reach down, grasping trees winter's stripped to desolation.
the hills are dull, like metal surfaces impossible to burnish, impossible.
A poem is like a conversation where you hurl your words out slow and there's no end.
This is my new poem-numbering scheme. I decided I wanted the numbers to reflect the total number since I started this poem-a-day effort. So it is the sum of Nonnets + Englynion + Quatrains + Random Poems – [poems written before I started the daily challenge but got included in the earlier counts]. There may be some inaccuracy because some of the quatrains got counted as multiple quatrains despite being single “poems.” Not that all this really matters. I just… decided I wanted to do it like this, moving forward.
(Poem #484 on new numbering scheme)
and now i have become dissatisfied with how i number all these little poems. perhaps a change could be created soon to leave it all confused, disjoint, and new.
(Poem #483 on new numbering scheme)
light reveals what's hidden among atoms and up in the trees tracing fractal motions distorted undulations aimless disquisitions of form leaves, for example, caught in the wind.
(Poem #482 on new numbering scheme)
My two plants don't do that much - the table holds them, and their leaves just touch - or somesuch.
This is an englyn cil-dwrn.
[daily log: walking, 7.5km]
(Poem #481 on new numbering scheme)
The air was biting the bones of trees. The winter had come to freeze all.
(Poem #480 on new numbering scheme)
and she was sitting there, like happy, and, like, not a care in the world, and she goes, like, "whatever," and she holds her hand out, and she's smiling, too, and I agree, and, well, see, and then, and...
(Poem #479 on new numbering scheme)
Words spill out like cars on a highway. They spin swirls, like oil on water. Rising up, they take on birds. They mumble to themselves. And problems emerge. Difficult words. Confusing. Gentle. Stop.
(Poem #478 on new numbering scheme)
What color is dawn? How does it contrast with night? Today, it is gray.
(Poem #477 on new numbering scheme)
Snow: drifting through the air but not sticking to anything, just making big promises and icy atmospherics which no one can appreciate because they don't like feeling so cold.
(Poem #476 on new numbering scheme)
Red-robed rogues rumble reductive rhetoric rhotically. Relatedly, robots rule regions, run rhinoceros races.
(Poem #475 on new numbering scheme)
the high today was zero degrees. winter has arrived here early.
[daily log: walking, 7.5km]
(Poem #474 on new numbering scheme)
Solidly overcast sky pins people like butterflies, broken creatures who lack any purpose or meaning, and nothing is spoken.
(Poem #473 on new numbering scheme)
long meetings eat time time gyres around like a top then time eats the sky
(Poem #472 on new numbering scheme)
I heard that it snowed from my students. But the ground was snowless by noon.
(Poem #471 on new numbering scheme)
A leaf tore loose and fluttered down. A girl was walking slow. She saw the leaf and stretched her hand. She caught it like a pro.