Skip to main content

Pit Bull in the Window

 Sometimes, it's impossible to get a good square poem. :) The following was inspired by a pit bull sleeping in a window, presumably waiting for his people to come home. 



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Once Upon a Future Past

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #204 . It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening ran behind me dragons, demons, and the sleeping world; afraid to turn, to wake me. Power needs its horror stories, its ghosts. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening followed close; a fantasy of goodness, where the gold is always covering bones. Power needs its fairy tales, its witches. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening treads my hem, like an army from the dragon's teeth and all the lies therein. -- Chrissa
14 comments
Read more

Not Slacking, Just Writing

 So. My actual screensaver called me out today. Have I been writing much poetry? Is the doggerel below P O E T R Y? Yeah, probably not. However. The real story is that I'm working my way through a few stories for Camp NaNoWriMo. At almost halfway through the month, I'm still not sure what will end up under the pen on a day-by-day basis but I've added to several.  My reading has been similar. Lots of initial chapters or initial handful of chapters but very, very few final chapters completed. I'm thinking about taking a day and just clearing out my zine basket. Summer heat settled in early, so I haven't been doing any outdoor reading, but zines are pretty quick and I should be able to finish several while the squirrels raid the birdseed. :)  Hope you're having a good writing/reading summer! It must have been a movie, black and white, Watched when I was younger, maybe sick, Glancing between Mom cleaning and the screen. A father and his daughter in a lighthouse New ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Fearsome by Survival

  Sharing today with T he Sunday Muse #189 , where Shay is hosting. Come and read and share a piece! On a web-white, wool-quiet morning I found the girl our stories gave us The one who survived She wore the meadow, carded and sewn Long since burned for field Still, she knew me Her stories named me fierce, feral She might have feared  The one who devours Neither of us spoke, patient at morning Breath, warmth, silence Innocent of power We know the stories kill us both We know that we become Fearsome by survival Hello and welcome. It's 67 degrees outside this morning and a warm December weekend might seem like the kind of thing that would prevent me from following through on a plan to hibernate with a good book for the rest of the weekend...but it's the doomscrolling that's run down the charge on my phone that's preventing me from doing that. Also, I may have developed an intolerance to long stretches of quiet during the past year and a half.  Anyway. Looking forward to r...
16 comments
Read more