It's a frog strangling gully washer - a found poem about rain

It's raining 

pikes, 

knobkerries, 

and the knives of cobbler boys, 

husbands are falling, 

old ladies and sticks 

from basins 

are 
falling 

         

trolls are falling from a beanstalk

Pelting, chucking, tipping it

down like a pissing cow

basin-bending big rain.

Source text found at: Omniglot

It's raining cats and dogs

A phantom grace: three erasures of Sylvia Plath poems

Erasure of Sylvia Plath’s Sleep in the Mojave Desert from Crossing the Water

Erasure of Sylvia Plath's Flute Notes from a Reedy Pond

Erasure of Sylvia Plath's Dialogue Between Ghost and Priest

River Brink - a cento

The stream is brimful in the grassy fringe

stone bridge among the withes

        old as the elms that shelter it.

A thunder of horses stretches

up the slope       moist necks 

        freed from the harness.

Source text:

The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot

Between Being and Becoming

  

Desire marks each of us so differently

no matter how long, how fiercely we love.

Between being and becoming, we fail


so often, and in such ordinary ways.

See how the sliding days silt in,

taking our other hundred lives with the water -

     each one waiting, having borne us this far,

becoming finned and whole, swimming off.

Silence completes us, simple as those few notes

that answer the dark on a summer night and fall still.

Source text for Cento: selected last lines from Jane Hirshfield's Of Gravity & Angels

Lush Valley

Cactus spread red-purple blooms,

improbable flowers.


Water rushing, leaves unfolding -


gratitude opened today in the heat.





Cento Source text: Lush by Sandra Vallie

Scribble the Holy Contour

Scribble everything!

Get drunk with your life, its own dumbsaint mind:  

visionary tics, trance, the true

story of the world interior – jewel center

of recollection. Swim in language,

in the holy contour of life

emblazoned in praise

of wild, undisciplined time.

Bits and pieces culled from Jack Kerouac's 30 Writing Tips

Raw, Wild Summer

Prey to luminous mornings

  in whose golden pulp

        lay the core of long afternoons

raw      wild      summer

  

  drenched with honey

Cento Source text: The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz (pages 25 & 26)