Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Game #8 - A Year In A Minute.

More than half a year has passed.  The last words of Walt Whitman are still moving like characters in someone else's dream.  Time is sensory, not so much an illusion, as a partial illumination, a window showing us just a thin slice of all that is outside.  The way eyes are constructed to detect only a sliver of the known spectrum, and even less of the unknown.  The way the dying ear drum detects only the voices that move along its private wires.  We may fill in the empty space with ghosts.  Take a minute - no more, no less - and write some words about the past year.  Let that be your poem. 


  1. pain,loss
    happiness, joy
    pride, guilt
    could be a passing
    year,a day
    or a minute

  2. Steve, very happy to see the return of "Whitman"

  3. …searched for solidarity in dreary
    made a silver speech that flopped
    like the flippers
    of the mojo walrus,
    was tethered to the new weather…

  4. ahh... life among the dreary drenches. Nice poem "Enea"