Cliff Ofelia ferch Rhos Salt spattered on chalk carves out the rough-hewn shape of thought:the cliff is a canvas where
they escape me, and become mammoths on sandstone, scattered by stick-figured spears.
Magpies perch listless as dew and wing their words over the sea.The water ripples their birdsong agon.
Clouds crowd in anticipation-I am the heavens surrogate on earththey would rapture me, and leave
the cliff empty as a forgotten age.The stones know no different.I am their occupying army.
I kick the stones,kick the moss,kick the cliff loose
so that landslipped rocks chase down the incline.The waves retreat-
capricious tide.Arrogant as weeds.Pretentious petrichor.
Dappled sun on dimpled seareaches over the horizonlike the old joke.

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Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO