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
map in clouds
a dead hornet
mouth full of needles
or plastic bag?
against the curb
we claim ownership
with lines drawn
in invisible ink
to the footless angel
a cooked-necked crane
siren song of
a neighborhood emergency
moths to a flame
the lit street
light pink cloud shard
crow flaps a bang traffic
around the trees
fenced in by red tape
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
stepping off the duck slippery when wet
raining acorns bounce
butterfly flies away
mimetic theory and
triangle roof joists
carrying a three
bared to the sun
behind the fence
a crow laughs above a child’s cry
lost in thought
moss collects around
one crow walking
rinse cycle rain
suds in the bottom of