“the exact day I became a poet was april 1, 1965,
the day I bought my first typewriter.”
in honor of poetry month.
mine was the day I learned to hold a pencil
and found a scrap of paper to scribble on.
image credit: daskeyboard
a poem begins with a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong,
a homesickness, a lovesickness.
happy birthday, robert frost – born march 1874
image credit: maurice shapiro – woodland sketch
“Frost grows on the window glass,
forming whorl patterns of lovely translucent geometry.
Breathe on the glass, and you give frost more ammunition.
Now it can build castles and cities and whole ice continents with your breath’s vapor.
In a few blinks you can almost see the winter fairies moving in . . .
But first, you hear the crackle of their wings.”
― vera nazarian, the perpetual calendar of inspiration
“i simply do not distinguish between work and play.”
r.i.p. mary oliver, one of my favorite poets – i agree.
image credit: alice boughton,
Teachers and kindergarten students
Warm-toned Gelatin Silver Print unmounted 1910 USA
of a piece of summer’s art –
when crossing paths
with a melted ice cream heart.
“besides being a useful adjunct to courtship,
ice-cream is often employed to feed poets upon.”
~”A Few Casual Remarks on Ice-Cream,” Puck, 1881
‘breathe in experience, breathe out poetry’ – muriel rukeyser
in honor of national poetry day
image credit: nationalgeographic.com