rain greens torpid grass
cool nights frost trees with yellow
nature, tired, yawns
Posts Tagged ‘creative writing’
Rotation
Posted in Creativity, Poetry, tagged autumn, creative writing, Poetry, quiet living, seasons, Writing on 26 Sep 2024| Leave a Comment »
Vignette—30Jun24
Posted in Creativity, Writing, tagged aging, creative writing, Puget Sound, vignettes, Writing on 30 Jun 2024| Leave a Comment »
He let the book down onto his lap and closed his eyes. The window ushered in the breeze of early morning, cold and full of the electric scent of coming rain. He luxuriated in the feeling of gooseflesh on his arms—what was it called? horri-something? yes, horripilation, when the skin grows tight and the hair stands up—as the cold air sailed past him, over him, through him. It had been an unpleasantly brief night, one filled with aches and discomfort. Aging wasn’t easy, or so his body told him, frequently. But the early morning’s grey-shrouded light, the breeze heavy with moisture seasoned by salt from shoreline waves, the feeling of the book’s rough paper still tingling in his fingertips, this was life, this was being alive, and the perfect way to start the last day of June near the edge of Puget Sound.
k
Edge of Forever
Posted in Creativity, Poetry, tagged creative writing, Creativity, modern poetry, mortality, Poetry on 23 May 2024| Leave a Comment »
Where
Posted in Creativity, Culture, Poetry, tagged creative writing, modern poetry, Poetry, Writing on 15 Mar 2024| Leave a Comment »
what if this
is heaven
where love rains down
on dreaming fields
to feed a soul’s desire
what if this
is hell
where acidic hates flood
shanty-clad plains
to burn flesh bone-deep
what if this
is both
where the ebb and flow
is merely a response
to our intention
k
The Persistence of Music
Posted in Creativity, Gardening, Poetry, tagged context, creative writing, gardening, history, modern poetry, Music, Poetry, praetorius, renaissance music, Writing on 17 Aug 2023| Leave a Comment »
Walking my garden paths
fingers inspecting leaves
snips cutting spent blossoms
I hum a tune born
four centuries past
across continents
and seas
I wonder if the author
as he wove his tapestry
of notes and voices
imagined his music
would live beyond his life
persist through time
as empires rose
and fell
I wonder if he
as the ink dried on
quavers and triads
imagined his melodies
would grace the flower-scented air
of distant gardens
in a land
unknown
Notes for the New Student
Posted in Poetry, Writing, tagged creative writing, Creativity, modern poetry, nonsense poetry, Poetry, Writing, writing tips on 03 Aug 2023| 5 Comments »
do not put vowels
in the dishwasher
as they are made
of air and intention
and will likely melt
consonants are built
of sturdier stuff
and may go in
the upper rack
punctuation is best stored
in the garage with
nuts and bolts and
other fasteners
words once crafted may be
machine-washed and tumble-dried on low
but avoid fabric softener
unless the water is
especially hard
take time assembling
phrases and sentences
aligning them to the meridian
in a clean well-lighted place
free from excessive drafts
paragraphs benefit most
from a finish on the line
in springtime when the
breath of the waking world
begins to blow
non-fiction requires precision
and regular maintenance
so for peak performance
tune to 4° before
top dead center
patience is recommended
when assembling fiction
to ensure tight seams
and a proper fit
stir poetry
over low heat
until reduced
by half
k
Evanescent
Posted in Poetry, tagged aging, creative writing, modern poetry, Poetry, quiet living, Serenity, Writing on 08 Jun 2023| Leave a Comment »
he took the time
looked up at day’s end
at sun-fired clouds
watching
slow subtle shifting
rose red orange
spark flame ember
glowing rusting cooling
he took the time
enjoyed the splash
of shadowed flights
on the sunset canvas
hard-edged jetliner dark-winged crow arrow-fast songbird
from farthest to nearer to near
all the layered worlds
sunlight to twilight
that lay between
his eye and the heavens
he took the time
not for the beauty
filling the space
between his heartbeats
but to give time its due
not to be spent filled wasted
but lived in
a constant transition
a string of nows
reaching
from dark to dark
without end
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 