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?
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.