Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king, Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing: Cuckoo, jug-jug,…
This is my letter to the WorldThat never wrote to Me—The simple News that Nature told—With tender Majesty Her Message is committedTo Hands I cannot see—For love of Her—Sweet—countrymen—Judge tenderly—of…
...We are right on schedule. And even virtually, I'm loving this. Here's a lovely poem to add value to what I'm feeling today. Thanks for reading (even if my reel fell flat).
Maureen says: Today, I challenge you to write your own index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or invent an index. Click to see what I have for you in the likes of Emily Dickinson.