Poetry Chain Day 1: Found Prose

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

 

 

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A Long Cast of a Shot

pheasant_10Feb15

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

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

Ten Found Thoughts

TenFoundFairyThoughts

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

 

Foul Tempers and Mud

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