Murky waters lap the floating acre of bush no one thought to name.
Its gnarly rock in washed up waste dissed by humans, Kudzu, even English Ivy.
Lanky limbs sign to the crimson cries: bind your ails, ills, and loads into a barge,
Come, bring your crowded isolation, eyes spent online, kids ceaselessly wondering why.
Old gnarled branches reach for the clouds, as if to say ‘take us with you’.
The clouds being fickle, don’t want any part of the branches request.
They just sweep on by.
But the crimson streak brings hope as they shoot across the sky.
And yet I wonder if the crimson means hope.
Since crimson is a red, it symbolizes blood.
And as the numbers rise, and loved ones cry,
How deep will their tears be in the flood?
As the branches of our lives
Dip below, to the unseen,
Our last goodbye
Is tainted by wonder.
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Susan Sarver www.susansarver.com
Jan Heverly. Author in waiting.
Justin Rielly is a playwright, theater artist and radio host based in Rochester, New York.
Rick Hughson Oh dear…
Brett McIntosh Find him on Instagram @bmc5100
This poem was the first to use the artwork as the prompt. Each contributor got to see the photo as well as the last line of the contributor before them, and could use either prompt as inspiration for their contribution.
I find it worth noting that only one contributor got to see that the previous person had used the word “crimson”, and yet all four poets included either “crimson” or “wonder”, or both. This is the beautiful thing about this project: total strangers are blindly contributing a piece of themselves, and yet their creating with a group mind.
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