First Five Years Spent Poor

Where I'm From, George Ella Lyon

Amateur

Once upon a recent time, there was a poet who hated rhyme. For each and every rhyming verse, he’d gnash his online teeth and curse, with all pretension he could muster that “coupled rhymes are so lackluster.”

And on he’d type, re: rhyming schemes, and freeform style’s “depths of themes". And that’s all fine and well and good: I just don’t think the critics should concern themselves re: all the fun that I’ve had ( i.e. writing this one).

My words don’t care for gnashed teeth, or high art skill, or market reach. So he can sit and seethe and gnash. But me? I’ll sit, relax and laugh, cobble rhymes both bad and worse, and sprightly spring ‘tween every verse.

-- rococobean

Care in their caress

through pain pricked fingers.

Love in the weaving

of comings and goings

Pas de deux He was a mortician. She was a seamstress. They wove stories of coming and going. All the unanswered, the unclaimed, the unknown became secondary. There was a lot of rain across a parched earth and they only saw relief of the end of a dance. But one dance leads on to another and another. The joy is in the twists, the dips always righted.

Maybe we are not at any center of the universe but at the very bottom of it, looking up.

Praying for autumn, as we all do, we ask for mundane to hibernate a pounding heart at last . At last .

the trees might be changing… but what about you?

𝘈𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 💐💙✨