Discover and read the best of Twitter Threads about #poetry

Most recents (24)

A small boy clutches tiny white flowers
Picked beside prison walls
thrust hastily into jean pockets

a yellow centre
surrounded by white petals
extending outwards
like a sun of truth

#FreeAssangeNOW #Assange #Poetry #Poem
Many years ago
shortly after creating an ingenious technology
to speed up the dissemination of truth
and end wars
his father spoke of a sun of truth
as a guiding beacon for civilisation

#FreeAssangeNOW #Assange #Poetry #Poem
The small boy passes through
prison gates
silent corridors
the frame of a metal detector
stern faces in uniform.

Large hands
check small pockets
the daisies are confiscated
sheepishly and awkwardly
another act of compliance

#FreeAssangeNOW #Assange #Poetry #Poem
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The tweet is a new genre of prose poetry, a succinct and sometimes humorous statement that packs a punch while consisting of exactly 280 characters. #poetry #genre #WritingCommunity The emoji will replace standard English spelling and grammar by the will of Revolutionary poets!✊
An activist is one who protests government wrongdoing. There are no rightwing protesters. The right supports government wrongdoing and advocates for more of it, with state violence if necessary. Protest is an expression of discontent with wrongdoing. Conservatives do not protest.
Are there "activist" investors? No. There are only investors who want to change things at the businesses they invest in, usually to make more money. The problem we face is, we have media like Forbes and Bloomberg defining our words for us. We must take them back. Or destroy them.
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#poetry The opening lines of
T. S. Eliot’s
“The Waste Land”

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.…
I don’t think his ghost will ever forgive me, but I wrote a poem called
“April’s Fool” that opens with this:
Prologue (with apologies to T. S. Eliot)

April is the cruellest month,
breeding jesters out of heroes,
crowning them with cap and bells,
filling with foolish pranks their brains.
Read 5 tweets
Happy Walt Whitman Day and Clint Eastwood Day! A pair of complicated and flawed but compelling and defining American artists. #poetry #film #twitterstorians…
It's easier to recognize Eastwood's flaws since he's with us today, talking to fake Barack Obamas and whatnot. But over the last few years we've certainly come to understand Whitman's own uglier sides.…
But both of these men & their works contain multitudes, much of which still has a great deal to offer us. Whitman's "Democratic Vistas," for example, is an anthem for a more inclusive vision of America.…
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My epidermis
does not
make me

Than the brown-faced boy from Georgia
who won’t be taught about racism in school
but will still learn it there.

Or the man face down on concrete
pleading for air
beneath a knee
of oppression.

1/3 #Poetry #Poems
Or the young girl
with box braids
staring out the school bus window
at confederate flags
and soccer-mom vans with
all-lives-matter bumper stickers.

Or the mother of mothers
And the motherless
with an angel’s smile
on a Saturday grocery run.

2/3 #Poetry #Poems
My epidermis
does not
or more important
or more American
or more worthy of life.

My epidermis
is not a burden
I must carry.

My epidermis
is privilege
in this sad, torn, and
terrible world.

3/3 #Poetry #POEMS
Read 4 tweets
The world, this beautiful planet, wastes away
while humans, beings of destruction
do nothing.
The sun is setting on our day.
Meanwhile, the Earth shakes with rage.
Time is all we had; time is running out.

The Earth, this beautiful planet, pushes us out.
Like a bullied child, she's running away
in a fit of rage.
She runs from us, from our destruction.
As day falls to day,
we still do nothing.

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boardinghouse reach

rootless and wild
a homeless vagabond
i roam the vast boardinghouse
that is the world

no matter the place
i am no family
no guest
only a stranger paying my way
from table to table
i make myself small
as untroublesome as possible
yet when my money
or my usefulness
or both grow thin
i am once more on the move

what i would not give
to knock upon a door and be greeted
not as a presence to be tolerated
but as a member of the tribe within
i have not yet stumbled on
a mat whose welcome
is truly meant for me
i have not yet been invited
into a warm and cozy room
and wrapped in the mantle of belonging

no one knows better than i
i was a grievous error in the fabric
of at least two lives and maybe more
Read 5 tweets
And now, a little late night #poetry

April Showers

A vicious wind hurls raindrops and bits
of aborted April branches studded with
leafbuds that will never bloom against the
screens with the unconscious artistry of
an expressionist in a trance, all the while
singing in a familiar voice I can't quite
place. Echoing in a neuron corridor
littered with the leftovers of another life
begging to be remembered. But the
synapses are too wet to fire.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch the
smoky outline of a man I thought was you
but isn't. But he has a way about him. Or
maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's just the
leftovers of desire aborted when you fell
into the unmarked grave I visit in my
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you asked what i wanted
in such a gentle way
i felt safe enough
to spill the secrets of my soul
i want to be bathed in silver light
swathed in silk
anointed with the oils of lavender and bay
i want stardust and moonbeams
the silver crescent plucked from the sky
and placed gently in my lap
you smiled
as you reached out an elegant arm
corralled the moon
and turning it upside down
made me your queen

then tilted my head
our mouths almost meeting
eyes locked in perfect comprehension
yours darkening
touching a place i'd almost forgotten
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paint job

you there
lying in that shaft of moonlight
as flat and quiet as a corpse
in a burial shroud

can you feel my thoughts
swarming round you

or has the world
eaten all your dreams
leaving you
without the smallest hope
of yet another gift

i would understand that
but i have pawned common sense
for the dazzle of belief
reserved what i remember of love
for just such a one as you

let me repaint you
eradicate the blue
i’ll refashion my heart
into a palette knife
smear you with dyes of devotion
gild you with pigments of passion
and smile as you rise from the dead

© 2017 RC deWinter

Published in Issue 2 - “Puppy Love” by Moss Puppy Magazine @MossPupMag May 2022 Image
Read 5 tweets
April: #National #Poetry Month

Conversations between a Medical Physicist (me) & CT scanner

~4pm: Overhead someone humming a rhyme

MP: Hey buddy, are you hearing the humming rhymes
Or is it just me hearing sound?

CT: No doc! You’re fine – U don’t need a brain scan yet!
CT continues:

Actually, it was me who was humming the rhyme

MP: What! That’s a nice rhyme you are humming – sounds so lovely.

CT: Well then, let me tell you the rest of it doc!

Round and round I go around
All day long and all night long
Others may quit
But I won’t quit.

CT: Continues

From going round and round!

Every time I go around
I peek in, by passing my x-rays
Then, I let my buddies generate
what’s inside

That’s why, I ain’t bored.

You may still ask,
at least once in a while,
“Don’t you get bored
To keep going round and round?”

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Ashes, Ashes

My hand trembles as I pick up the pen. Fingertips fray,
disintegrating into a sooty ashen mess; all those burnt
and broken bridges are making a break for it.
But the broken also carries beauty in the pain;
will you let me smear these ashes on your skin?

No blame if you refuse. I won’t fault you
if you answer no. I understand the reluctance
to accept the burden of another's shattered past.
But if you’re brave, or curious, or something else,
I’m yours to smear as well.

© 2015 RC deWinter
Published in Talking River Review, the literary magazine of @LCSCIssue Issue 51, Fall 2021
Read 4 tweets

A Catalogue of Stray Observations by a Superannuated Flâneuse

Summer’s here and the bars are crowded, along with the beaches,
malls and every other place we go to forget the fragility of life
in a world where foolishness masquerades as courage
and we all think we’re invincible until the day we wake up dead.

The flags are flying in Tokyo but the Reaper’s there too –
moving silent and hungry as he feeds his insatiable appetite,
feasting on the multicolored souls of pilgrims
from 206 countries come to cheer the best and brightest
in a dizzying catalogue of competition celebrating
the triumphs of bodies devoted to human perfectibility.
Read 8 tweets

Friction Field

The wind, on this blue night,
is howling like a banshee,
sad voices carried on it.
It's the kind of night
when all your sorrows
come back to haunt you.
The electricity in the air
is a palpable thing,
an element so strong
your skin prickles
with the unrelenting
friction of those atoms.

I feel you especially.
Your presence swirls
in those atoms,
rubbing relentlessly
across my skin,
across my soul.
I won’t sleep tonight,
not as long as that wind persists.
I’ll lie in bed like a prisoner in a cell.
And carried by that wind,
your electrical arms embrace me.

© 2012 RC deWinter
Published in indiescribe November 2013
Art: Ghost Tree © 2015
Read 4 tweets


all i want to do is watch the sun go down
while holding your hand
both of us saying good night to the day

instead a blue wave roared up from nowhere
and swamped my heart
took it right out to sea
there was no sunset
no you
only whitecaps and wild wind
now i hear a cello being bowed
so deeply beautiful
so sad
the salt water hovers but it won't fall
i sit in the cold wind
hoping it will carry your voice
on that richly woven melody

@ 2017 RC deWinter
Published in Writing In A Woman’s Voice
November 2021
#Art: Turbulent Sea @ 2010 RC deWinter
Read 4 tweets

Dancing Master

I know you dance in the old way
hardly anyone does anymore –
smooth and graceful,
holding your partner close,
twirling at just the right time.

I, a child of the fifties,
vaguely remember the fox trot,
the polka and swing your partner do-si-do.
I might be able to fake the box step
as violins sob out the wavelets
of the Blue Danube, but you
will have to lead, always.
And how I long for you to do just that,
extending your hand, lifting me from my chair,
taking to the floor to teach me civilization,
as I, head buried in your neck, inhale
the grace and beauty of a time I never lived.
Read 5 tweets


let's go my darling on a quiet walk to nowhere to everywhere
the world awaits no need for words
we'll simply be together
in time in space in love
the world awaits no need for words
as we wander exploring the fierce beauty of this garden
in time in space in love
we'll know the perfection of circles completed
as we wander exploring the fierce beauty of this garden
fingers entwined in love knots of forever
we'll know the perfection of circles completed
in the silence of devotion
Read 5 tweets


The memory of almost-scalding water baptizes me with its melody;
the shower is one of my favorite but little-visited refuges from the noise of nonsense.
I leave my skin unwashed for two days, three, sometimes more.
This gives me an excuse for extended indulgence.
The shower is one of my favorite but little-visited refuges from the noise of nonsense.
I’m waxed with the accretions of many days and nights.
This gives me an excuse for extended indulgence;
I need not defend the time spent there.
I’m waxed with the accretions of many days and nights,
hot passion unspent; the one for whom it's meant unavailable.
I need not defend the time spent there,
in the bed of imagination, where the impossible becomes my reality.
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a piece of you

when i walk the damp sand where the sea kisses the shore
trying not to add my own salt to the cold green water
i see you in every wavelet washing over
my feet
when i get home and throw myself into a lawn chair
light up inhale exhale and stare up at the dappled sky
your smile floats in the smoke soaring on
the breeze
when i stand in the kitchen throwing dinner together
instead of letting things pile up to be washed later
i clean up as i go and there you are in the corner by the
fridge nodding
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After Compiègne

Lightning doesn't strike twice. Not this kind.
I’ll never be debriefed. Not in this life.
I gorged myself on fairy tales
for far too long.
I’ll never be debriefed. Not in this life.
Waiting for a happy ending, I held out a wickless candle
for far too long,
daring to hope for more.
Waiting for a happy ending, I held out a wickless candle,
an unpretty little girl
daring to hope for more.
Now I suit up, the faceless rivers retreating.
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when you first appeared a diplomat concealing
all evidence of your hunger your disappointments
the atrocities of your wars i took you at face value
never expecting more than you were willing to give
we each with fences shielding us from familiar
disappointment shared an intellectual discourse
ignoring everything that touched our hearts
the flowers budding in the field of hope you often spoke
almost angrily challenging everything i in my
innocence my ignorance believed

when you broke it was a bombshell collapsing those
fences into the insignificant dust of the unnecessary
now you speak in shades of every color you’d never
painted flawless strokes born from the surrender of
Read 5 tweets

Fool’s Errand
Sleepless in the clutch of sorrow’s claws
I got up, dressed for winter
and went out to the garage to find a spade.
Knowing the ground was frozen
but needing the almost impossible labor
of breaking it up to tire myself enough
to catch the ferry to Dreamland.

Under the gimlet eye of the sickle moon
I lifted shallow spadefuls of uncooperative earth.
Flinging messy chunks over my shoulder
until I was exhausted and ready to meet the Sandman
on Nepenthe’s wharf, where I could bargain
for the temporary sweetness of the impossible.

But the bastard never showed,
though I heard his mocking laughter
echoing in that dark tunnel
like a punishment for my every sin.
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deconstructing heaven

stained as we are by the imperfection of the human condition
encased in the flesh that both sustains and limits us
we cannot imagine the sacred geometry of the universe
but when we become the stardust that lights the blackest nights
every mystery will be revealed in a glory impossible to know
until we are part of it
if it comforts you to dream of angels
and an old man on a throne have at it
but there’s no old man who made us in his image
we made him in ours still our indestructible atomic energy
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trimming the sails

i’ve given
up on perfection
having known
it i don’t
expect lightning to strike twice
so though i never

say never
and love all shades of
blue it’s not
the color
one wants one’s skin to be so
i’m not holding my
breath waiting
for another prince
charming to
to show up
at my door with roses and
and a ring to sweep
me off to
a paradise that
isn’t one
but i wouldn’t mind a smile
and a hand to hold

© 2022 RC deWinter
Anthologized in “New Contexts: 3” by Coverstory Books @CoverstoryB
April 2022
Read 4 tweets

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