For the Month of April will be writing poem a day using the daily Prompts from

Day 16

Prompt = The rather silly form called Skeltonic, or tumbling, verse. In this form, there’s no specific number of syllables per line, but each line should be short, and should aim to have two or three stressed syllables. And the lines should rhyme. You just rhyme the same sound until you get tired of it, and then move on to another sound.

Skeltonic verse is a fun way to get some words on the page without racking your brains for deep meaning. It’s a form that lends itself particularly well to poems for children, satirical verse, and just plain nonsense.

Sci Fi’s evils weeder

Take me to your leader
the endless repeater
reptillian alien feeder
crazy half plant spore seeder
galactic charter cheater
planetary balance to teeter
tipping readings meter
inner hull breached by beater
a five handed metal eater
giant hovering skeeter
awaiting universal translator greeter
bartering something unknown by the litre
Purple yet smelling faintly of cedar
until out finally to peter
its claws slowly it would whetter
the intergalactic weeder


by ton, wanting to exterminate
with no intention of being late
or in anyway fourth or fifth rate
head to patronizingly pate
grinning all the while, to grate
bound to fail, its fate
only able to blow up freight
scraping its armour plate
using the others as bait
in wait,
ambush behind obvious create
blinded by unrelenting hate
postponed until a later date
sequel, by critics to berate
again they just had to state
take me to your leader, no debate
the plot done, patience not a trait
it is not hard to keep it all straight
they really just are not all that great
in one ear out the other it does skate
evil sci fi killing machines failure to integrate
leaves them wholly unable to conglomerate
and us unsympathetic to the whole bad guy slate.

– W.B.

Day 15
Prompt = Think about a small habit you picked up from one of your parents, and then to write a piece that explores an early memory of your parent engaged in that habit, before shifting into writing about yourself engaging in the same habit.


Peel & slice potatoes
Onions,chop n dice
(no crying please!)
I mean grate
Some fresh cheddar
Add tablesppons of flour
Dots of real butter
Scald milk
Stove element turned
Just to boiling power
Then layer,layer,layer
Big roasting pan
Into oven with small prayer
Divine smells
From oven for hours
This was one
Of her super powers

I helped her prepare
Huge cassaroles
Comfort food
That fed our souls
(tummies too)
Then when I left home
I cooked that too!

– k


Habits of habitat are hard to half habituate,
Haggling held to hold halation here.

Hear all the little things you pickup along the way,
Haul of traits, in pauses that makes you wait.

How held hearth holds heat,
However haltingly.

Hitherto comes and goes,
Had what was and what one knows.

Heliotrope highlights heady headwaters,
home holds headstrong headwinds.

Hearty heath hedges.

Held In a garden of corn,
Have later tomatoes,
Here in still of corms, the tiny flowers bloom still.

Height hews helically,
Heist hefty hyalite heirdom.
Here holds the seed.

Hyaloid hands hold home,
However hybrid, hypothetical

Hoary, hardened hands
Hobby hoes herein

Here holds the wintery outline of a garden
Holding on for the next spring….

– W.B.

Day 14

And last but not least, our (optional) prompt for the day. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that delves into the meaning of your first or last name.

Pure One!

One laughs
Covered in your violence
World’s dirt
Since birth
Kept N.I.M.B.Y. ‘ed
Buried deep
Can’t move at all
Or your Teeth
Carried your secrets..
Young body owned
By others
Tiny sufferers
Blank smiling zombie
Decades sick
My soul lit
Smallest burning light
Shadowless footsteps
Should have named me
For how deep
Been tested my metal!
Where’s my medal!
Life is war
From 1st breath
Walk with death
Hand in hand
Born into wrong time
Our Human Race
Criminal were those
Such abuse
At your hands
Strong name
Cute little girl
Such trouble awaits
Her future unfurled
Like a nightmare.

– k

Meaning:pure. Katherine draws its power from a saint martyred in Alexandria known in Greek as Aikaterine; the Greek word “katharos” means “pure.” This regal name has been in use since the third century and has evolved into many forms in different countries, from Katarina to Kathleen and Kaitlin.

Your name here

In every space, line, pop up
I feel I am stuck
What is it all to mean now

if continually rewrote
does it fast erode
drained of meaning, devoid form

I am of a mind that I am me you see,
feeling no need to be copied or re-signed.
I have resigned to just being me,
Fleeting forms and storms pass,
and I again feel me at last.

I can sign anything, and still be me.
Signed, sealed, and delivered forms,
now what meaning has all that.
Doppelgangers are no doubt also accomplished forgers.

– W.B.


Day 13

Prompt -This one is short and sweet: write a poem in the form of a news article you wish would come out tomorrow.


Extra, extra
Read all about it
Canada has decided
To FUND free therapy!
Recognizing value
Healthy populace
Thousands of quality
Trauama informed
Standing by NOW!

Predictions of
Lower crime rate
Violence way down
Less penal
Higher school grades
Lowered domestic violence
Huge cut in addictions

Millions diverted
From war schemes!
Into health & healing!

Sweeping reports
Coming in..
Country by country
Free mental health care
For the people!

You read it
Here 1st folks!
Underdog Daily News

– k


This just in, popcorn trees explodes in heatwave.
just about an hour after noon
The buttery yellow flower blooms fell, the ground in pale yellow to pave
All the kernel like buds blew up, having had no one to properly prune
White inflated forms flew from the tree, then to the ground to cave
Mixing with the yellow flowers there strewn
Light buttery scent, a pang of hunger gave
Churned by a crosswind though bare branches that did croon
Shovelled up into large paper leaf bags, to save
Hurried to home, to the movie just as it started with a short cartoon.
and handfuls of popcorn over to rave.

– W.B.

Day 12

Prompt – “Past and Future.” This prompt challenges you to write a poem using at least one word/concept/idea from each of two specialty dictionaries: Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary and the Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction..

Low Tide 2091

Unbound to flesh
1st drifted coreward
Freedom exhaulting
Deep dive into our
Milky Way’s
Mysterious black hole..
That region of spacetime
Where gravity is theorized
To be so strong!
Nothing escapes
But I will!
All personal
Mud & meteorology
Left back ‘Home’
No longer
Dirt or bone
Look, just breautiful..
Rainbows refractions
Souls glistening
Sparkling like crashing
Push particles
Quantum miniscule so tiny
Terra forming
Distant ‘also worlds’
Takes consciousness
Willingness to work
Like a mirage
In a ice chip
Rest a blink
A eon
But then always
Come back to you!

– k

Unobtainium, Tellurian Ostia

Sitting at the mouth, flowed by the river of Tiber.
Under the shadow of the tower,
a symbolic port of commerce of ancient Rome,
shifting by the day, as the sun moved across,
two moons sat low in the sky,
over Ostia to fly.

The Tellurian delegation was again late,
it always seemed a part of their history and fate,
no wonder they never managed to manage to obtain any unobtainium to date.

Even in this age, bureaucracy was still largely untamed,
controlling the planetary weather had proven far simpler gamed.
So many opportunities to set the future had already passed.
Just as the sands had once drowned the port,
the slowness of the hourglass, away plugged,
slowed negotiations, as away at they tried to sort.
for a future large share of unobtainium home to be lugged.

– W.B.

Ostia –an ancient city and harbour which was situated on the western coast of Italy at the mouth of the River Tiber. It was the first colony founded by ancient Rome and was a major port and commercial centre.

Tellurian –a native or inhabitant of Earth

Unobtainium –a hypothetical substance that would be highly desirable but is unrealized or unobtainable; a notional substance with exceptional or ideal properties


Day 11

Prompt -Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a two-part poem, in the form of an exchange of letters.

The first stanza (or part) should be in the form of a letter that you write either to yourself or to a famous fictional or historical person.

The second part should be the letter you receive in response.

These can be as short or long as you like, in the form of prose poems, or with line breaks – and of course, the subject matter of the letters is totally up to you.

In a Gazebo by the Sea

Do you remember that gazebo by the sea, cantilevered out over the rocks
carved into the landscape like all the initials into its soft grained railing blocks.
Perched in the middle of nowhere
So many promises there did you swear
Do you remember hiding out there from the wind in its lee
The storm of life eroding away the shore, your screaming at the wind in a plea

Step by step down to the last drop down to the shore
just above high tide mark, the power of the sea was something you could not ignore
nor they, as the last steps off it would have tore
recall what you did implore
standing in the middle of the storms immense lore…


Read, replied, signed, I sealed it up again in envelope white and stark

I look upon this tattered envelope, worn postmark,
of this letter sent so long ago on a lark
How do you think I would ever forget
that tatty old gazebo, where land and sea met.

Last I was there, its tall peaked roof long ago fell to the rocks below
but the stairs still perch at the shore, as in and out the tides still go
now calm, the tide low
A gentler pace of life, restful, slow

Frenetic foaming sea, I cower in the lee no longer
Like the storm I have grown stronger
life around me does not anymore monger

Phases of human nature that come to be
I know now that I am free
No mater the state of things, land or sea, I alway have the air of me.

– W.B.

=======================================================Day 10

Prompt It’s called “Junk Drawer Song” and comes to us from the poet Hoa Nguyen.

First, find a song with which you are familiar – it could be a favorite song of yours, or one that just evokes memories of your past. Listen to the song and take notes as you do, without overthinking it or worrying about your notes making sense.
Next, rifle through the objects in your junk drawer – or wherever you keep loose odds and ends that don’t have a place otherwise. On a separate page from your song-notes page, write about the objects in the drawer, for as long as you care to.
Now, bring your two pages of notes together and write a poem that weaves together your ideas and observations from both pages.

The Sound of silence:

Hello, paint pots
My old friends
Table top
In creeps
Once more
Major upend
Glue & safety pins
ALL call out
I wish to talk
With you!
Orange bag, neighbor
Hath sent cheezies
Dust above
Breath too deep
Get the wheezies!
All a vision of madness
Tho my heart but see’s
Possibilities rise from
Dusty seeds
To grow this mess
Takes creativity
To me -art
You-wrecked train
Unique answers
Give forth our brains
Life does remain
Within this
Of silence

– k

Closed openings in the opening of a drawer.

Past life shelters in an old drawer,
the forgotten soundtrack to days of past glory.
Unneeded items that you feel a need to keep
Melancholy of items slowly shuffled into it, and then to the back to sit.

The slow intro of the opening drawer that you always ignore
familiar faces of unneeded things with no tomorrow
No tomorrow.
Worn out things from places you will not go back to again
Then no one knew, no one knew, that the old calculator would not be needed anymore,
A compass of no arcs or circles that will not give direction,
An old voice recorder that don’t listen to you any longer,
Its batteries removed, the connection cord mislaid.

To sit and listen, waiting. very nervous, wondering if they would ever leave the drawer again.
The old first aid kit in the broken green box
Held together by elastic band, wrapped twice around

Its a very very mad world….

Enlarge on your world,
But keep all the past,…
past over, left over, pieces locked away in a drawer.

– W.B.


Day 09

Our Prompt for the day is to write a poem in the form of a “to-do list.” The fun of this prompt is to make it the “to-do list” of an unusual person or character.



Ginger root
Golden Seal
To dry & peel
Mixt, mixt
Cauldron heavy
Iron pot
A cat to sit there
Some picturesque spot
Walk me path!
Seek I do
Small warm cabin
Misty woods
A long full cloak, Yes!
Deepest purple
Jewelry too
Branches for the fire
Grinder (electric Thank You!)
Nahuatl Peyotl
Candles that all night
Wizened, lovely
Old Crone
A dropt’ list
Rise sisters
I do insist!
Off to forest,
Marsh ,
Ancient Plant Medicines
To heal us all
Once again!

– K

Do too
Do to

Oh what to do, what to do, what to do….

From the desk of WWW {The Wicked Witch of the West, malevolent ruler of Winkie Country}

-Get dog
-Urgent!! -Fix roof leak!
-Get Dorothy to surrender. Surrender Dorothy Surrender!
-Get back at Academy Awards people for giving Best Picture to Gone with the Wind.
-Get silver shoes… Or perhaps Ruby…
-Buy more winged monkey food
-Buy OZ Shower curtain for Birthday
-Lunch with WW of the East,
-Renew subscription to the Emerald City Times

Oh its all such slog,
dealing with the overly meek,
Getting an appointment with the pointed hat mender,
Finding small shoes for the thin shinned.
Flying housed going by all spinning and cube-y,
uncouth animals that are overly rude.
Getting home before the suns last ray,
Munchkins cleaning their plate of the last piece of the feast,

What a world, what a wold, what a world…
as melting crooked nose curled, as the echoes fade out in rhymes

– W.B.


Day 08

And last but not least, our (optional) prompt. I call this one “Return to Spoon River,” after Edgar Lee Masters’ eminently creepy 1915 book  Spoon River Anthology. The book consists of well over 100 poetic monologues, each spoken by a person buried in the cemetery of the fictional town of Spoon River, Illinois.

Today, I’d like to challenge you to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology, and then write your own poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead.

Ohh Death

Again, again
Last gentle breath
Spirit soar’d
Look there!
Just at horizon
Cloud with a rainbow
Bird in full flight
Butterfly in mass
Following tradewinds
Thro windy night
Past all seas
This pass of me
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Embraced eternal souls
Life so full of love
Amid harm here
Even as I leave
I dream
If I can return
I will
I must

– K


Kipper Knoll

I always found life a little fishy,
coming from an area of low tide, if you will, of Spoon river to reside.
A writer of more years than I would care to count,
so many things seen, too many to accurately account.
But over those years, looking through my dirty window at the street,
I saw all the little things that fell right at my feet.
Step by step, booking time, I wrote.
Of fishy characters and plots, in layers to coat.
Of all of all of this, I made sure I left just this one little wish,
and rewrote my whole life, my whole life posthumously out to dish.
All but one little nugget of truth, sure to be missed.
I lived the script, of the rest I was wholly tightlipped,
a fiction left to be of great of extol…
The life of Kipper Knoll.
I leave you to wonder, and wander of Spoon river’s hills that roll,
and all of the fishy stories and bull.

– W.B.

Day 07

Prompt- There are many different poetic forms. Some have specific line counts, syllable counts, stresses, rhymes, or a mix-and-match of the above. Of the poetic forms that are based on syllable counts, probably the most well-known – to English speakers, at least – is the Japanese form called the haiku. But there are many other syllable-based forms. Today, I’d like to challenge you to pick from two of them – the shadorma, and the Fib.

The shadorma is a six-line, 26-syllable poem (or a stanza – you can write a poem that is made of multiple shadorma stanzas). The syllable count by line is 3/5/3/3/7/5. So, like the haiku, the lines are relatively short.

Our second syllabic form is the Fib is a six-line form. But now, the syllable count is based off the Fibonacci sequence of 1/1/2/3/5/8. You can link multiple Fibs together into a multi-stanza poem, or even start going backwards after your first six lines, with syllable counts of 8/5/3/2/1/1.

We were love
Stardust ‘s own pure hearts
Love was us
Pouring out through in
Mere mortals wide arms outstretched
Swallowing moons whole

Smiling face
Such earthly joy
How dear each dimple
Eyes that shined like stars brought so near

– K


Soaring flight
banking around cloud
dropping wing
pulling tight
angles back towards water
to cross the shoreline.

Caught in light
of strobing sun proud
out to sing
in its might.
Beaches the oceans blotter
below, over pine.

Shadows plight,
across echoes loud,
of something,
soaring kite,
across sand dunes to totter,
of talons sharp tine .

– W.B.

=======================================================Day 06

Prompt. Go to a book you love. Find a short line that strikes you. Make that line the title of your poem. Write a poem inspired by the line. Then, after you’ve finished, change the title completely.

OchRED Hands

Beautiful flowers
Sunlight & good days
Clear running rivers
Just waiting
Turn, turn around
Crawl for freedom
Don’t let this cave
Entomb you
Sips of nectar overwhelm
Those 1st needing just water
Roses have thorns
Slim hand reaching
Out of such darkness
Emerge dirt covered
Even cleaned up
Strange to each other
So strange
To each other

– k

Posed to Bloom

The rose holds its pose, but is best seen from front or sides,
its back hides among thorns, and under leaves
budding it opens its beauty into the world
but how to hold its still in a breeze

All around a churning, gusting wind billows and across rides
natural beauty of its splitting petals cleaves
twisted in deep reds inward it swirled
holding its forward pose to please

Does anyone take photos of the backside of a rose, or seas at low tides,
naturally nature regardlessly, in its self, believes,
inward its confidence tightly curled,
opening up just slightly to tease.

– W.B.

=======================================================Day 05

Prompt – I call this one “The Shapes a Bright Container Can Contain,” after  this poem  by Theodore Roethke, which I adored in high school – and can still recite!

This prompt challenges you to find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem. If I used Roethke’s poem as my model, for example, the first line would start with “I,” the second line with “W,” and the third line with “A.” And I would try to make all my lines neither super-short nor overlong, but have about ten syllables. I would also have my poem take the form of four, seven-line stanzas.


Unicorns Ahead

Softly, they ran on by
Long multi-coloured manes
Flowing like dance
Perfect counter gait
Each step, Oh!
Music of their equine selves
Standing,I, bewildered
Just aware
Day dreamed
Perhaps shape shifted
Wide eyed
Far seeing such
Plains I did not know
Prairies, purple
Velvet blue
Flat & shimmering
Hooves fell
But then more slowly
Giant but gentle
One steadily approached
It seemed maybe
I already knew!?
At least reminded me
Of you
A/wake or A/sleep?
Real or imagined I,
Nuzzled by warm breath
Love peering thro
Huge caring green eyes
Deep into mine
Greeting Yes, Welcome
Shared dimensions
Love’s promise
Coming through!
I believe in Unicorns
Do you?
A Blessing!


“What is a group of unicorns called?” is a pretty popular quiz question with an absolutely magical and unexpected out-of-box style of answer. According to DoYouKnowStuff and Quora, a group of unicorns is called a blessing.
Blessing of Unicorns!

A Hard Run

I crossed the raging river, The wooden deck under foot,
I didn’t look back at all, railing solid and deck stayed put.

As by I flew from bank to bank pushing on my way across,
As content as I could be, for hardly any time loss.

Moving through the country side, stride by stride in fluid gait
Ahead to the next waypoint ahead more road lay in wait.

I push on, the end in sight if only inside my mind,
No obstacles allowed in form, or of any sort or kind.

Between me and my goal there must be nothing to intrude
As I run hard through the pain in beautiful countryside



Day 04

Prompt. Poetry often takes us to strange places – to feelings and actions that are hard to express except through the medium of a poem. To the “liminal,” in other words – a place or sensation that exists at or on both sides of a boundary or threshold, neither one thing or the other, but something betwixt and between.

In honor of the always-becoming nature of poetry, I challenge you today to select a photograph from the perpetually disconcerting @SpaceLiminalBot, and write a poem inspired by one of these odd, in-transition spaces.

Quantum snow
BOOM this our astral
Skies fell that day
Soft, glittering
All unique & none the same
Imperfection within every centre
How we hung on..
To melt , become bound
Swept into a sea
Sweet choir of angels
Looked out my window
Just what did I see?

– k



When the night comes,
in the shadow of a tree.

Dim transitions one can trip over,
Last flickering candle light cast,
framed, from a lone window.

Again repeated at the dawn, if in reverse.
The first rays of daylight broach.

The underdeveloped colours,
the insubstantial status of fading things…
whether fading in,… or out.

Stopping, or starting, the un-startling effect,
happing so gradually for the senses to collect,
so effortlessly to project
fade in, fade out, the twilight landscape in-set.

The world flattens, the sky joins into the ground…
as inky blackness descends all around.
Until dawn, and again the lightening of the sky and birds start to sound,
Solitary blues take to flight, as the sky overhead again mounds.

But between there is transition that creeps
as most everything else still sleeps
un-vibrant, un-contained
and far too easily disdained.

I can hardly see it myself I have to say,
this odd twilight that happens well after the end of the day,
happening just after you realize that the light is starting to go away…
and darkness across the threshold starts to lay.



Day 03 NaPoWriMo 2021

Prompt. -Today, I’d like to challenge you to make a “Personal Universal Deck,” and then to write a poem using it. Basically, you will need 50 index cards or small pieces of paper, and on them, you will write 100 words (one on the front and one on the back of each card/paper)

Don’t agonize over your word choices. Making the deck should be fun and revealing, as you generate words that sound “good” to you. The fact that the words are mainly divided among the five senses should be helpful in selecting words that you like the sound of, and that have some meaning personal to you.

Once you have your deck put together, shuffle it a few times. Now select a card or two, and use them as the basis for a new poem.


Limestone, crumbled
Weighted,crushed algae,shells
Minute marine of old
A memory
Dream of falling
Slow, slow zig zagging
Adding layer after
Eons long gone
Then whoosh
So urgently bold
Earth quake shifts
Sea bed up-rising
Continent sharp lifts
Into existance
How white the cliffs
Of Dover

– k

At the window

Sat at the window, the street an arms length away
People probably rushing home, passed, at the end, another long day

The musty smelling motel room
the worn, outdated furniture, the smallness managing to cocoon

Sitting off in the distance, along, another world away sat the sea
Its water had an almost pearlescent quality

I waited
being still here, I hated

Still, I knew you were not coming,
we were through, as my heart again started drumming

My excused were running thin though
but I convinced myself ‘Just little longer’ I would wait at the window….

– W.B.


Day 02 NaPoWriMo 2021

Today’s prompt. In the world of well-known poems, maybe there’s no gem quite so hoary as Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about your own road not taken – about a choice of yours that has “made all the difference,” and what might have happened had you made a different choice.



Was there ever one?
Might I have
Stepped off
At birth?
Crawled the wrong
Missed a turn?
Were unicorns & fairies
Just right..
Over there?
Fate & destiny
Karma & synchronicity
Madness & mystery
Death & energy
Another Rain Forest
Forward step
Always wondering
For what..
Will be

Next 2 C

– k



Is there something at the corner…

Shhhh, there is something around the corner

Shhh, the world can turn in a moment

Shhh, The world can change in a moment
The world can change momentum

Shhh, The quiet comes, momentous
The moment slows, as pondering quickens

There was something around the corner
I went straight on, perhaps never fully to know

what around the corner there was into to go…
looking back, there is nothing to be seen off to the sides

No one will ever know
only I, of what, in passing, I glanced off to see what there did bide

Now, there is just a quiet emptiness there
The space I left empty, gone on, it sits, around the corner, bare of despair

That I left, for the straight path to disrepair.
Only occasionally in passing, my pair of eyes over fondly to stare
for just a moment until I remember, there is nothing today any longer there.

– W.B.


Day 01 NaPoWriMo
Prompt (optional, as always)! Sometimes, writing poetry is a matter of getting outside of your own head, and learning to see the world in a new way. To an extent, you have to “derange” yourself – make the world strange, and see it as a stranger might. To help you do that, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem inspired by this animated version of “Seductive Fantasy” by Sun Ra and his Arkestra. 



Dry mouthed mid sleep
Mid night
Woke gasping as if
Kissed by pool side
Check myself
Hand to chest
Hip, face
Am I
Wet with pond sweat?
Deep darkness
I listen
Ahh still one
Of our human race
Slow waking dream
Slips away
Her dreamt soft kiss
No trace

– k

A world runs around me,
Turned inside out.

The pressure of a kazoo counters the flow of light into spectra.
The more I focus on anything, the more it shudders and shifts away into something new.
The old shutters, churns, pans, reforms into another inclined plane,
burst forth, Reforms from the strain,
tilts, the pinball rolls off, there are no rules.

These are the mirror of other others dreams that play out onto insides of my eye lids
Transition unheard sights and unseen sound into tactile numbness.
Minutia of transplanted dreams, distorted brainwaves made of a different wave length,
tinted by another’s Blue eyes, realties of retinas not mine, filtered unknowingly behind.

Bespoke lines wrote, onto wind to coat
the world stuns around me
shocking re-perceptions float.

Turned inside out, now upside down.
The world falls still, without a sound… into my ear drums again to pound.
Meaning, a Rosetta Stone, your buried treasure, yet to be found.

Your world swirls
Distorted vantages, alternate disadvantages highlight.
Your dim view of coming night,
To me, you see, never quite to seem right

My perspective runs from me
ricochets and returns in kind
yours in, a balance I can not find…
the world runs around me to flee.

I know not what to make of it, and its longings, but only of its need to run free

– W.B.


Day 00- Early-Bird Prompt -NaPoWriMo
Today, we’d like to challenge you to spend a few minutes looking for a piece of art that interests you in the online galleries of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. After you’ve selected your piece, study the photographs and the accompanying text. And then – write a poem! Maybe about who you imagine making the piece, or using it. Or how it wound up in the museum? Or even the life of the person who wrote the text about the piece – perhaps the Met has a windowless basement full of graduate students churning out artwork descriptions – who knows?


—> Cuxa Cloister | Catalan | The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Cuxa Cloister

Of legs of arches,
framed of leggy shadows
running off into the distance
across the grassed courtyard

Of Northeast Pyrenees
Cuxa Cloister sits
low fountain center around hunched down on its knees
intricately carved unmoving eyes, across a small bird flits

Of Pink marble capitals that squat overhead
stood at the foot of Mount Canigou
watching walkers march, in rows under led
or across to cross through.

What scale, what sight
to somehow proceed, its distance starts to recede
oh the magnificent view to a millipede
crawling alone along, steadily into the night



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