Tuesday, January 15, was cause for a reunion of sorts when
Tweetspeak Poetry, part of T.S. Poetry Press, sponsored one of its famed, fast-paced Twitter poetry parties. Following are a few of the small tiny poems and remixes I created from words found among the hour's tweets, including my own. (And yes, I took a wee bit of liberty for reasons of grammar and meaning.) My thanks to Prasanta Verma for all her retweets throughout the evening and to player-contributors L.L. Barkat, Laura Lynn Brown, Sonia Joie, Sandra Heska King, L.W. Willingham, and Glynn Young. Go to Tweetspeak Poetry on January 29 and February 5 to read what Glynn has done with the tweets.
I hear the silvery trill
north of cold,
feel the chill of moon,
the frost of maple.
Elms whisper,
and all the woods
shiver.
~
When a willow turns
red, it is time
to shed
what autumn foretells.
~
The fall of rain on moss
is nearly silent.
Not the voice of a mother,
keeper of small poems.
Her weeping — no song
that lights upon the lips
like a gift of strawberries —
tastes like the ash
of fires long gone cold.
~
The gift of returning
makes fair each day
of a husband's absence.
~
The gift of weeping
clears to understanding.
~
Beyond some invisible boundary,
where still-bare branches
trace the grammar
of animacy, the mother
weaves her stories —
grown long
but well-balanced and -constructed —
while braiding sweetgrass
at the hems of twined moons.
Hand-over-hand,
like circles and circles and circles,
she braids, humming
her gratitude, her allegiance
strong as a pecan shell.
~
The mother sighs,
losing her way
through the stories,
asks:
Do you hear the willows,
how their sounds of being
whisper the consolation
of water lilies?
Let me settle you.
Let me settle you.
~
When is it easy,
this searching of earth?
More north,
the pines yield no secrets —
not of the keepers of fires,
nor of time
that draws to night.
The answer lies
in the space between
whispers,
where light that shines
upon the asters and goldenrod
offers the secret
of happiness:
a way back home.
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