Thanks for the thoughts with my first morning coffee Scup.
I needed this.

Isadora? Th barefoot dancer?
I was seeing my mother sew.
I saw (in Mind) my father.
He was in the 'Shop' and
sneaking a 'Camel' smoke.
`
I no did see . . .
`
a beer guzzling sport fan
sitting with his daughter
a chewing cotton candy
`
Time does not change us
It just unfolds us -
`
Max Frish
`
a granddaughter ...
not a coot, but cute
`
witnessing
Grandpa using a corkscrew
to clean his toenails
`
refusing to say
'God bless you' after a sneeze
on the first date
`
observing the groom
fondling the bride seconds
before his `I do'
`
Good morning . . .
Your worth two reads
and no chew tobacco
`

Another 'wow' read for me this morning! Thank you for sharing!! Of course, rated!

Your words dance down the page with the grace of a Mozart etude. And the visuals they paint make me wish I could paint.

You write the kind of poetry that intrigues and creates a desire to reread it over and over....each time finding more treasure.

"squozen" makes it.

Sure you can say squozen.

These time passages, they come toward us at strange moments. Remembering my father at odd times now, fresh from is death, the scraps and bits like a quilt.
This poem brought me tears as I see this horizon at times also. The linking of your words are dreamlike. I imagine putting brush to paper like words to paper of a different sort.

^his^ death of course.

Next time I hear somebody say something like "Why create?" or even "How do I create?" I'm gonna tell them to read this.

Because this poem is breathtaking.

The mind coagulates, hardens, and cracks. PAINT, dammit, PAINT!

Your painting is gorgeous.

just lovely, evocative and soothing.

It is as though you paint with words . . . the brushwork perfectly placed for the subject, for that moment, whether urgent or pensive . . . there it is . . . right there.

playful

nostalgic

I feel very comfortable in this poem.
Her bare taupe shoulders
juxtaposing black august silk
draping Pope and Pagan's mistress disturbs me only a bit.
Probably the carpenter's rhythm, the perfect stitches & more stroke
tie it like something familiar, inherited,
something I feel I've known
& welcomed, once before.
I'd forgotten when.

You manage to gather all those letters, collecting them, forming patterns with them, making new colors with perfect strokes of both knife, giving shape. Your father's daughter: brushing off the excess and making the words like new. Your mother's daughter: shaped by reaction to. Your land's daughter: able to spot the invisible finch line (my, but I love that arresting image).

Time becomes endless in the creative moment.

How good to hear you again.

P.S. "squozen" is perfect. Not sure about "strown" though. ;)

You manage to gather all those letters, collecting them, forming patterns with them, making new colors with perfect strokes of both knife, giving shape. Your father's daughter: brushing off the excess and making the words like new. Your mother's daughter: shaped by reaction to. Your land's daughter: able to spot the invisible finch line (my, but I love that arresting image).

Time becomes endless in the creative moment.

How good to hear you again.

P.S. "squozen" is perfect. Not sure about "strown" though. ;)

Ahh, dear keen Pilgrim. Thank you. And on "strown.." so true. That whole stanza needs a rewrite!