Dancing with a Curiosity
The day is all alive – like a fair, and the windows have something new to stare at — summoning their gaze inward for a time, their skittling eyes tracking me like white gloves across dustiness. And I am dancing with a curiosity. Dancing, dancing, sweeping moments of love and loss under cover of night, and I belong to no one — and everyone. I dance to remnants of music, whispers at every turn. Everyone dances to their own tune; that song that keeps playing in your head.
Found and remixed text From: Dickens, Charles. “Bleak House, of 265-267” iBooks Store: https://itun.es/gb/BnmVD.l
The Menu at Tiger Inn at Beachy Head
Tiger, tiger, lovers Inn
Walkers, soldiers, smugglers run
Baskets, bread, bowls of toast
Cheddar, Stilton, honey roast
Tiger, tiger, catch the day
Mustard, mash, course pâté
Sussex custard, ham and cream
Blackboard, cheese board, order sweet
Tiger, tiger, don’t forget.
A Long Cast of a Shot
The time was plenty for us.
Not so for all. This one small
shot bearing a long distance
off – it settled, its flight, torn,
cast long with awkward start.
To ground, from tree, and shot,
on a very warm and agreeable
night. My young friend and I,
had shot beauty from the sky.
Margo has us exploring the word ‘cast’ this week. Note: I have never shot not touched a gun. Borrowed words and phrases remixed from The time is three minutes until eleven at night, Source: Text Clock at http://rossgoodwin.com/clock/
The Time is Five-Forty-Six in the Afternoon
An affair, that heavy burden, slipped,
taken for its trouble. And those stares
into hours of madness, into heat and dust.
Those lamentable bonfires, but she retains
his letters. He need not have. That ring.
He stood in coat-tails, singing, inaudible,
and the air grew round and nodding.
Found him in the morning, lost
in the voice of flags and a bugle.
revised 7 Feb: 22.46,
written for Found Poetry Review, Text Clock
A fun prompt from The Found Poetry Review: The New York Public Library’s Instagram profile now shares photos of handwritten questions using the hashtag #letmelibrarianthatforyou . FPR’s prompt is: Write a poem using #letmelibrarianthatforyou questions.
I stayed over
told me his
Written for The Found Poetry Review
Ten Found Thoughts
Time tumbled in snow white beds, tables ready for everything.
Tininess of children echoed through forests, a parlour of whispers.
Outside we hear surprises, crystal streams bubbling in the sea.
A flower growing within a bottle, tied contently to water.
They moved house: knives, forks and spoons, and their winter.
Baby buggies and stony chimneys, all dusty as old rugs.
Long nights put out fires without fear of catching cold.
No laughing faces, no merry peals make an awful noise.
Twin houses, one with climbing vines, one none at all.
A house so lonely; cold, dark windows where she sat.
Text Found remixed from Friendly Fairies by Johnny Gruelle © 1919
Illustration also by Johnny Gruelle
Written for dVerse Poets: “Ten by Ten” prompt
Fur and Snark and Sass
He’s enchanted by easy thicket,
that guily gender zipped in a mean wit.
All seriousness, I like this. I mean,
I want fur and snark and sass
in the midst of real grizzly life.
I’ve found awesome.
Text Found and Remixed.
Written for Found Poetry Review Top 10 Finders Keepers
prompts, Big Foot for Women by Amy Pickworth.
This is a Found “erasure” poem sourced from the text of Margo’s prompt.
A Found Haiku
specks of rain
a thunderous fall
Written for MLM,
A Found Haiku from
Bleak House by Charles Dickens
Remixed Found Text from “Bleak House” by Charles Dickens
and my own recollections of November 1990, Bletchingly Surrey
Foul Tempers and Mud
I am from a place of wood, green
needled hills, and high toned scents,
acidic and antiseptic from sap,
and in the summer heat, trees snap
and tick like the workings of a clock,
but this is not such a place. Here
pressed into implacable weather,
here where streets are blackened
drizzle and fields that retire to mud.
Dogs, cats, children and cars,
pedestrians all, foul tempered
with foot-holds slack on crust
upon icy crust. And truly, I thought
the sun dead as the day broke
over Mead Lane today. I cough
through snowflaked fog, and pray
God that I’ll not die in this place.
This new home, this new sense
that my feet beg to wander, to roam
far from this place. But I know I shall
never return to that home of green.
And what of that sound;
a bird; a call; an owl’s drawl…
Remixed: “Bleak House” by Charles Dickens
and recollections from November 1990