We, The Witnesses

I’m fine without it
but grew green-faced again,
a cavernous hollow,
needed the euphoria
which came with words
echoing through trees.

You’d given me a reprieve,
so mild and common,
and now I’ve returned to
making marginalia, account for
(what do I call this)
nameless, wispy things.

All the storying that goes on,
in whatever form it took,
piling up as posts, appearing
as praise, or grievance,
pouring with light every
time you looked.


So I took my mind off poetry for a bit. It’s like a reprieve. The pressure’s off, isn’t it, till it’s back on. Back on? Who says? What gives this inner compulsion to write fiction? What gives, you tell me. Is it like having to say what you’re thinking or feeling, in a story form? Check out this quote: “After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” ― Philip Pullman. Think about storying in your poem.


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