Lately, I’ve been seeing poetry in a lot of commentary, scriblings, and general correspondence. Here is an example, maybe two.
This one I found on a comment by Kristin on her Facebook page:
“Half of Washington and Canada are in Palm Springs. I smile as they tell me how many consecutive days of rain they’ve had or how many degrees below it’s been.”
And this between fellow story tellers Robert and George:
George:
“Here is the name of the movie: “Wrenched” it’s on Amazon.Charles Bowden shows up in interviews about Edward Abbey.”
Robert:
“After Viet Nam, a Volkswagon camper felt like the Hilton. It was almost too much! So, I was happy to give it up for a series of small, fairy-tale like dwellings supported by a communal kitchen, dining hall, bath-house and runs to the closest laundromat. Until we strayed.
Edward Abbey’s “The Monkey -Wrench Gang had slightly less appeal for us than “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.” Dee Brown: one more voice to complement Abbey and Bowden. Rachel Carson, too.”
George:
“Have you noticed? It’s impossible to write anything non-poetically?
There must be band-width of thought that sings and writes at the same time. After a period of written expression and a depth of living/observing that band is entered and becomes sealed against any escape. Not to be confused with ‘safe space’. It’s just a place we find ourselves. Maybe it’s a staging area of sorts.”
Playing Fair and Being Kind 