If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn. ~ Charlie Parker
The Daily Create had us looking at an archive of British advertising and the Ghost Signs archives caught my eye. These are advertising signs on old buildings, where the words are faded but remain visible, and tell the story of a neighborhood’s past.
Ink faded
by years, so
that only
the remnants
remain
Ghost signs
on facades
of brick and
wood and
stone
Past words
now left
alone
Peace (fading),
Kevin
This is from a one word prompt for the morning: mushrooms.
Peace (growing suddenly),
Kevin
The Daily Create had us looking at text about the Mill at Willington, and the ghost stories that come with it. I took a passage from one of the visitors of the mill to create a blackout poem, and then layered a ghost on top of it all.
Peace (boo!),
Kevin
We used a random word generator for the Daily Create this morning, and then used that word (mine was “mosquito”) to build a haiku or small poem.
Peace (getting a buzz on),
Kevin
Dragonflies are fascinating creatures. They were the prompt for this morning’s haiku.
A wisp of a wing,
the small, darting dragonfly
hovers in wonder
Peace (on the wing),
Kevin
Peace (falling),
Kevin
Beneath the brick
I hoped would pause
the bees from their hole,
the yard’s still a-buzz
with yellow-jackets
This poem is in the form of a Gogyohka, a five line phrase poem, for Open Write.
Peace (such nuisance),
Kevin
I have many muses
singing along family lines:
my father’s drums –
my mother’s voice –
my brother’s guitar –
my grandmother’s stories –
every song is wrapped up tight
inside the threads of others
This poem is from a prompt from Open Write about legacy and lines of ancestry.
Peace (listening),
Kevin
I’m getting back to song:
swimming the rhythm
of words again, replacing
runs and phrases like kayaks
loose on the current, playing
each verse in reverse to
rediscover the chorus, ideas
are the trees in this forest
in which something near true
arises, anew
This poem is from a prompt over at Open Write about “getting back” to something. This is about a song that I started, stopped writing and then returned to again.
Peace (in the Muse),
Kevin
We finger the aged picture,
linger a little on the moment
of the farmhouse in the field
at the top of hill where now
our whole neighborhood sits;
it all fits — the history of a place
is rooted in the remembering,
the rocks in the soil wending
their way forward with each frost
in order to establish the present,
our dirty skin begins to build
something to last
This was for a prompt at Open Write.
Peace (in the history of place),
Kevin