I mean, what the hell?

I think I might have a November Novel in me this year. And may just track it here.

In short, all good things are wild and free

Sitting here at the end of National Poetry Month and looking back over the last few weeks. I've read a lot of poetry this April. Some of it was bad. Most of it was very good or even great.

Was sitting on my front porch writing (like I do all the time). Put my waxed canvas journal cover down beside me to think. Within five minutes, the sun had melted the wax on the front of it and made it look new again.

I always thought I needed nature to be able to write. Here lately, my muse has been a city dweller. If I walk in the woods, nothing comes. If I spend an hour in town, I'm so full of words I'm freaking out.

"Write a micro fiction or a poem about meeting someone you admire for the first time." Oh, that's easy.