A poem I like: Airsoft by A. Van Jordan:

And toy guns masquerade as lethal guns
in a boy’s dreamland where no one dies,

where they simply lie down and play dead,
but they live to play on.
As mysterious as a cat in a box,

a toy gun in a Black boy’s pocket,
the gun neither dead nor alive,
unless offered a chance to empty

his pocket to solve the paradox
of what a day might hold.

had a hard time narrowing down the excerpt, sorry if it “ruins” “the end”

claw hammer possum
the purple blooming
beneath my thumbnail

A poem I like: Foxglove Country by Zaffar Kunial

Alone it becomes a small tangle,
a witch’s thimble, hard-to-toll bell,
elvish door to a door. Xgl

topographic
map in clouds
a dead hornet

mouth full of needles
squirrel
steps gingerly

POEM I LIKE: I’VE GOT THE COVID BLUES BY TONY MEDINA

dead cat
or plastic bag?
against the curb

we claim ownership
with lines drawn
in invisible ink

standing next
to the footless angel
a cooked-necked crane

siren song of
a neighborhood emergency
moths to a flame

blue
above
the lit street
light pink cloud shard
moon

crows
laughing
out of sight
cackling cawing
gone

this cinquian inspired me to try my take on the form, using the stress count by line as a syllable count.

and here is what the Stable Diffusion text-to-image AI model thought this Hi-Q should look like.

crow flaps a bang traffic

b/le/a/e/ding edge

dust clouds
around the trees
fenced in by red tape

CREATIVE WISDOM FROM JASON ISBELL

I don’t make country music. I don’t make pop music. I make folk music, really, with varying degrees of volume.

It’s good to know what, at its core, you’re making. And what your parameters for warping it to your own ideas are.

I’m not always the person speaking in the songs, keep that in mind.

Just because you convey the voice, doesn’t mean it’s yours. (And something I wish more receivers of art understood.)

One of my beliefs is that I have to talk about my beliefs.

If not, what are we doing here?

Conform your chosen form to your choice of vision.
Convey your beliefs through whatever voice shouts them the loudest when your creation finds its direction.

behind the fence
golden-headed grass
droops

stepping off the duck slippery when wet

raining acorns bounce

brick wall
butterfly flies away
a bird

mimetic theory and
triangle roof joists
recalculating…

squirrel
carrying a three
acorn clover

attic’s ribs
bared to the sun
behind the fence

a crow laughs above a child’s cry

lost in thought
moss collects around
the roots

swaying
seed-headed
stalks

dirt path
one crow walking
another

rinse cycle rain
suds in the bottom of
the dishwasher