tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13510506630181857592024-02-20T09:33:38.029-08:00A Flowing River of WordsExploring the power of the written wordGustavo J. Matahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880610690491385212noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1351050663018185759.post-49678173464569882292011-06-08T07:42:00.000-07:002011-06-08T09:40:15.745-07:00May wordsA scorpion<br />caught<br />in a glass jar<br />trying so hard to be<br />he must be free.<br /><br />Under iron skies<br />we felt<br />the wind<br />ice daggers<br />as we walked from her fresh grave.<br /><br />Pool of yellow light<br />through the forest ceiling breaks<br />violet butterfly.<br /><br />Today<br />I feel<br />on me<br />the weight<br />of the weight.<br /><br />Lost in a grey crowd<br />his mask red, white, and blue <br />a clown holds back <br />tears<br />from the void.<br /><br />Swallowing fire<br />before the lights change to green <br />Soot boxes his world.Gustavo J. Matahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880610690491385212noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1351050663018185759.post-55563725991019163552011-05-29T11:27:00.000-07:002011-05-29T12:05:48.769-07:00A Communal PoemThis poem was written collectively in Twitter by <a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/moltoassai">@moltoassai</a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/AkiSchilz">@AkiSchilz</a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/gustavojmata">@gustavojmata</a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/PoeticalPsyche">@PoeticalPsyche</a>, and <a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/isabelmbush">@isabelmbush</a>.<br /><br />Each one of us wrote, according to the above sequence, one line for the first stanza. Then we wrote the second stanza in reverse order. The poem emerged, line after line, from each poet's interpretation of what had been written before.<br /><br /><i>The green leaves tremble feeling shy<br />Until shivering their blossom into flight.<br />On a magic mushroom the grasshopper chants<br />Lines of wisdom, lines of rhyme, lines over ten thousand times.<br />He continues his solemn chant until the moon rises over the misty river.<br /><br />Hearing the call the giant white eagle wakes from his decade long slumber.<br />Wings expand –tufts breath –talons release from dreamtime's grasp.<br />Anaba sweeps the hogan floor –Manaba whispers “our time is come”.<br />The eagle knows; wings fan a moon into the eyes of the grasshopper at Manaba's feet.<br />Sweet sounded words the poets' glory; that was our little springtime's story.</i>Gustavo J. Matahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08880610690491385212noreply@blogger.com0