Mindful Writing: She’s a Rolling Stone

How did I get from two behind to six behind?! I need to put myself in a corner and work on mindfulness.

An elderly man, white bearded,
blue jeaned, takes his time, bicycles
down the sidewalk along Peachtree
Road. He waves at a car. When
he turns back I see the parrot. A yellow
parrot with orange and green wings.

A man and his parrot. Cycling
along Peachtree one winter’s day.

Mindful Writing: Stone Soup

I really must learn, as soon as I have typed the stone to IMMEDIATELY go here and post. I keep forgetting that part and running into something, during the day, frantically waving a flag at me.

Two versions. The second is an experiment because I was curious.

red blue green orange pink

in the middle of a grey day
after several days of grey
a string of leftover Christmas
lights brings cheer to the room

red blue green orange pink
lights06
in *red* the middle of a grey day
after several *blue* days of grey
a string of  *green* leftover Christmas
lights brings cheer to *orange* the room

I think I like it, but am not sure whether it works. At any rate, it was fun. Now, OTHERS’ BLOGS.

 

Mindful Writing: Stone the Crows, Late Again

It does help if I type up the stones sitting in my notebook. Then I’ll only be four days behind. Below, three stones. Can you tell the kind of weather we are having?

Everything outside is grey,
even the rain with its half-
hearted mizzle.

Inside, on the stove,
a Le Creuset pot sits,
a bright orange enamel sun.

************
A gumball machine rests on the granite counter
top, its base a red enamel with chrome trim.

Cashews fill the glass globe.
************
Mist swallows the dreariness of grey
wraps buildings in silent shrouds.

Mindful Writing: Ack! Another Stone?

Anyone else having problems remembering that not only do they have to write stones, but they then have to type them, post them even? It’s not as if this is difficult! One thing good about my seeming lack of focus is that I am accomplishing something I hoped to: I am writing on the fly [you should hear my brain: Oy! Wait. I'm still processing. Where are you?], not something I find easy — unless a teacher is standing in front of me saying, ‘Write a poem following these three steps. You have nine minutes’. It worked a treat.

Yesterday’s and today’s:

stone 6

As if I exist on two planes, I look down
to where early morning cars rush in and
out of my vision, marked by red tail lights
and the glancing reflection of street lamps.

Up here, on the seventh story, the trees
outside my window lift their bare, twiggy
branches and stand like sentinels waiting
for the sun. The road sounds recede.

All is still.

Stone 7

Turning my head I catch the moment
of arrival. A splash of salmon with a deep
rose centre colours the horizon
pinks into low-lying cloud streaks.