This poem was meant to be a glorious thing, To really take off, even sprout wings But somewhere, somehow it took a wrong turn, The vision got lost, the fuel failed to burn So I switched phrases furiously, here and there Sentences too, to give it more zest, flair But I saw it wasn’t working, I began to panic, It was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
–––––––– “The greatest peacetime maritime disaster is the perfect metaphor for the poem that no matter what couldn’t save itself.” – the writer
… my little boy says, meaning what I know he means, the way sounds hit you near enough, the fox with the frazzled tail dashing as we approach, its life at risk between the hedges, so flashes in fatherhood strike you as worthy of forever, which is how long you would drive with him remaking the world one sound at a time, after the lightning that comes and goes in storms, vivid days like this in between—and perhaps it did strike that tail. Now to find a new word to say not simply “life” but much more than.
––––––––– “(I write) for the same reason I read: for a love of words and stories that connect us.” – the writer
Thank you to the ones who, Before starting a repair, Say, let me record this.
Thank you to the ones who Act goofy, sing a song, and remind me, In my fit of frustration, To have a light heart.
But, thanks most of all For explaining the smallest detail. For making me feel that I am not alone In not knowing how to fix what’s broken.
Thank you for all you’ve taught me, For your generous impulse to share your expertise, And for being there, a click away, When I need you.
–––––––––– “During the pandemic my home has decided now is the perfect time to have an all systems breakdown … I have been tackling home improvement projects I never would’ve dreamed of trying. The generous folks on YouTube have saved the day more times than I can count.” – the writer
I am free! My verse is free! I verse — whatever whenever however. I versify — my joys, hurts, thoughts, and my angsts. I versify my visions and dreams, I versify my beliefs … and disbelief my faith and the lack of it. I conjure up my shallowness and depth from the hat I call my verses. I turn to verse when … and … if I want. I am free to verse away from meter … to verse away from rhyme. For to verse is a freedom! Shouldn’t be chained … nor boxed. Shouldn’t be buried in the grave of standards.
–––––––––– I am an expat from the Philippines teaching English here in South Korea. Writing is one of my hobbies. It’s my shield against homesickness. It keeps me alive, sane, and productive.
Glass confetti melts fast, blurring jagged fragments to the hot, smooth translucence of a vase turned by Murano glass workers. Metal rods swing to the hammer of a kiln’s volcanic roar as molten glass is dipped from the mass of flames and rolled against a rag to form.
heat blows to stillness; words fall from mouths to print.
Outside the workshop’s fiery dark, canals eddy with the push of boats; lapping at the timber supports of the pier, tiny waves turned to tongues erode the foundations. We walk, jarring experiences separately.
nightshade blooms as closing day cedes galleries
––––––––– “I’m a working Mum. I write to still the spin of life’s chaos.” – the writer