Poetry happens.  I have no conscious part in the event, though I am a receiver.

This little snippet happened to me on my walk today:

A colourful dash

A blueful sash

On a merriful, blueful hill

A flash of yellow

to cheer a fellow

and feast the fillful fill.


I’m looking for ideas. Can you complete the poem?  Do poems happen to you? What happens when you read a poem that isn’t right, or isn’t finished?


June 10

The rest of the poem happened (in the same place on my walk.  Must be a portal…..)

The pink did stink

Like octopus ink

That the hummingbird used to kill

The toxic sludge

failing to budge

The cornflower’s blueful spill.



2 thoughts on “A colourful, blueful hill

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