verlie burroughs

I went down to Tilbury Town looking for Poetry I heard she used to work at the fish factory But it had been awhile since she’d been seen I fancied myself a new age Don Quixote  My Rocinante an old Barracuda  with an ashtray (and a potato for gas cap) And that’s what got me in trouble They stopped us at the ferry dock You cannot board like that !  (they hadn’t noticed on the way over) You’ll have to find a gas cap And that was that I could not cross over the wine dark sea to continue my search for Poetry I’m in exile now in Tilbury Town  And Poetry is not around Sancho and I are parked at a garage where we    wait  until a new gas cap arrives Maybe Tuesday                                                         ~ to be continued                        ...

Skirting the Cape          ~ visiting the lighthouse (reading your poems Julia) It is still beautiful (all these years later) The rock is sun-warmed where we lounge propped up on elbows watching the waves crash below Ron is reciting behind his binoculars  Naming the familiar fishing boats by their colours as they cut through turbulent waters skirting the Cape  On Saturday we go to town in the life raft (to take me back) We    see some of those same folks at the dock And some stop and chat                                   …about firewood, gooseberries and foundation posts, And when you get home, you write a poem  about it (of course you do)                  a conversation,    [you] take home           like a bunch of flowers            ...

Springtime    steady on   full speed ahead  Wild strawberry    running on    running on springtime Mother nature sets her watch  by the angle of the sun Yesterday the blue muscari  Tomorrow the wild cherry My garden    telling me telling me    it’s springtime! Day 16 prompt: In “Ocean” Robinson Jeffers delivers an almost oracular, scriptural description of the sea not just as a geographical phenomenon, but a sort of being – old, wise, profound, and able to teach those who want to learn. Today, try writing a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught or told you.

  Love what is love? Love speaks softly like a lullaby calming and soothing your fretting mind  telling you everything will be alright in the morning hypnotized  you fall into a deep dreamless sleep Like a babe in a cradle Love is a whisper, a sigh A bird on a bough Love is a journey on a long road knowing when you arrive you are home Love is now. Prompt: write a poem that muses on love, but isn’t a traditional love poem in the sense of expressing love between romantic partners. I like the love is a journey theme expressed in the K. Siva Reddy poem    A Love Song Between Two Generations given as a resource poem for today. https://www.poetryinternational.com/en/poets-poems/poems/poem/103-16127_A-LOVE-SONG-BETWEEN-TWO-GENERATIONS

  Navigating Maya Then: You spend your days toiling with pen and paper  Digging deep through your memories  for anything resembling poetry (You know no one will ever read) Now: You’re writing poetry in the sky  Your words are literally bouncing off satellites received instantly by anonymous reader in Mumbai (Now you’re a fish caught in the internet) Day 14 prompt: Poetry is an ancient art, and one that revisits themes that existed thousands of years ago – love, nature, jealousy. But that doesn’t mean that poets live in a sort of pre-history unaffected by technological advances. Emily Dickinson wrote about trains, and I’m rather charmed by a poem about the “incredible hair” of actors on television. In a more recent example, Becca Klaver’s Manifesto of the Lyric Self draws inspiration from the contemporary drive to document everything in digital photographs. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that similarly bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide betw...

  Creek sung sweet Repost from April 13 2024   Nature has another thing to do    To you and me; so take the lively air,    And, lovely, learn by going where to go .            ~ from The Waking by Theodore Roethke 1908–1963 Honestly I was quavery, lacking bravery, but the Sun drew me out (and the sound of the birds), it was like a re-birth. A freak quiet on the street, almost too good to be true, but for the birds and me, there wasn’t anyone around. I emerged as if from prison, suddenly free to walk took to it like a duck to water in a swimming sort of saunter Stunned by bird song, And the air! The air I was so starved for,  I drank it in like water. Immersed in this earthy scented safety, I felt a surge of energy. Suddenly I was walking, though I faltered at the start, I caught my stride  And in that Roethke style, my feet knew where I needed to go. Across the road and through the wood to the creek— The creek. The cr...