A daily poetry practice to generate and sustain the Life/Lines among us, for published and novice poets alike
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Write a short poem (rhyming not necessary) that includes each of the following 5 words (anywhere and in any order). Poems should not exceed 7 or 8 lines.
Send us your poem via our Submissions page or post on Twitter or Facebook using the hashtag #lifelines.
Poems submitted for April 6
glinting off the ocean just outside her door
waiting to hear small feet run through the home,
splitting the calm
like bricks of firecrackers, electrifying the air.
— Kelley Lingle
Thick, green moss grows in cracks between damp bricks
Slivers of light hit matte surfaces and diffuse
Rivulets of rainwater find their way
through miniature canyons and crevasses
in which insect feet chart new frontiers
— Sharon Derry
light the river light brick light brick light brick
light brick light brick light brick light brick
have small feet for a man
or so I've been told
(dubious appendage assumptions in tow)
very high arches
like a dancer, good pointe
manifest destiny, size US8
What must it be like
to have brick feet
to root in the river
When you're light on your feet
you learn fast
how to float away
— Jay Buchanan
Can't help losing the figure under light
Small hands scratching bricks cold at night
It's spring and yet the green can't be seen
Count the snow's flaking; memories feed my living
— Wei Li
you, crouching in a corner
full of moonshadow, a river of light
on your PVC flooring, clutching
a useless cross, a brick around your neck
and she, two doors down
lying in bed, the small of her back
uncovered in the April heat
the whole world at her feet
— Tobias Feldmann (International Writers Track)
The light from the sun paints a delicate glow on the brick houses on my street
From my new home office the world can seem so small
I wonder at the inner and physical strength of my daughter as her feet take her
on a long and ponderous walk to the river
From there she sees beyond today's troubles and lets the water flow past
freeing her mind as it moves all worry gently to the ocean and beyond today
— Mary Clemens
The River filled with bricks
No light on the other side
One can smell the death
He took a small step
The feet became a brick
One can only long for life
When on the verge of death.
— Jey Sushil (International Writers Track)
I remember when my feet
trod the brick paths,
nothing small about my expectations,
all the light in my home town
reflected off the Mississippi River.
— Sharon Bangert Corcoran
St. Louis, small winter light
emptying streams of red brown brick
Sweeping rust to the river’s feet,
Whether surrounded by imposing structures of crumbling brick
Or on the shore of river raging down its course,
She felt small, insignificant, purposeless.
But then she dared to dip her feet into the river
And dared to bring a light into the darkest structures
And she no longer felt small but mighty
And she, too, raged like the river
And fortified herself against the crumbling bricks.
The brick winds through the green
bearing small prints – cat paws, girls socks
(we told them shoes or bare feet)
light on the yard river.
but you know what to do. Line up the brick,
six, ten, twelve feet high, anything to keep out
that small, screechy reminder:
it’s for the best, you like being alone, nobody wants to see you anyway.
Just before you’re done, trowel in hand like a Christmas angel,
a sliver of light slips into your face—a little river
you dam at its mouth, mortar over for some greater good.
Light reflecting off the red brick
Brought back memories of a long path
I used to follow when I was young
As it snaked along the Black River
And I heard the patter of little feet
As my siblings followed in my wake
Too small to take the lead
A small light in the distance blurred by the fog
I knew I wasn’t alone as I gazed down the river
I stood motionless as if my feet were glued to the ground
When all of a sudden out leaped a frog
I could hardly contain myself from making a sound
But all was safe as I realized it was FedEx Ground
— Maureen Kleekamp
A gradual transition of feet clad in winter boots to strappy sandals;
The way the storm-clouded sky breaks by light;
Allowing spring to trickle down into the muted haze,
Rendering tender blossoms in brighter color;
A small reprieve from winter’s torpor.
The mighty river churns, ceaseless in its gesture;
and I am so very far away.
Brick No Path
My small feet
to the river
2020 04 06 by Lloyd Klinedinst
Rain fell and flowed in rivulets down our dusty faces
pooled and splashed
as our small feet raced for home
along a river of red brick and over valleys of concrete.
Light drained from the day.
Our game postponed.
Our childhood on hold.
— Steve Givens
In the fading light
the brick walk
Our small feet
into magic rafts
What a beginning,
The frozen light of her mouth
Swallowing the tide’s feet like nothing.
A river so small that her belly of bricks show
But one so moving that one dip of a toe
Will have you engorged.
— Ellery Saluck (Class of 2021)
Down along the river of bricks, I slide
Feet seamlessly tracing concrete cracks.
To the light— to that small bit of light,
With no sound but midnight’s creaks and pacing tracks.
“Nothing here shall bite!” it cries,
Nor does anything turn its back— alas.
All bricks have turned to pillow stacks,
From which begins their daily plight—
My thoughts escape the obscured night.
— Nicci Mowszowski
A small bit of light shines
On our red brick city,
Its feet resting on the banks of the river.
— Tila Neguse
Hot Texas yellow blue white
Light-bounce off green river
Tan feet burn on sandy brick paths
Here, there’s no such thing
as a small helping of sky
Only heaping handfuls
— Holly Gabelmann
In the fading light
the brick walk
Our small feet
into magic rafts
Seeking redemption or some small part of it
Her load is heavy like a brick she carries on the inside
Towards the river
Towards the light.
— Peggy Jacobsmeyer
The crunch of runners' feet
The river, too old to care
Claps for their small win.
— Mark Alford
bare feet clinging to the rocks,
I threw a brick in the river
just to hear the sound of it plunk
and to see the splash sparkle in the light.
In the early light, the sound of small feet,
By children is very sweet,
Like the smell of fresh bread,
Freshly sliced with a river of butter
Melting at the break of the morning light
And the heaviness of a brick,
Dropped from a great height
But now is out of sight, so is night
Propelled by a river of light,
I pass by shuttered stores, closed doors,
Deserted streets, darkened buildings made of brick.
O Silent Night…only the patter of my small feet.
And wondering when?
And who next?
— Pam Hughes
A small whisper in the light of day
I crush red brick
Lay the dust at my ancestors feet
They brush the wind against my lips
We are a painting a smile in the depths
We are making the most out of all temporary things
And this grief, it is familiar.
— Salena Burch
you throw your socks up in the air;
I look at your small feet, the light on your red hair
like the bricks of our home
is all we know;
you say my bed is not a bed
it is a boat,
the floor is not a floor
it is a river and I float.
— Erika Conti
Then rivers, in the night: all
Signs of warmth. Our timid feet
On cold brick feel heat--so small.
— Robert Henke
Bricks of communication light a great path, beaming through misunderstanding like a river of peace.
Small prayers equal big blessings and comfortable feet.
"It's so nice," she said.
"I don't want to work," I said.
"Let's make out," she said.
"Hmm, hmm," I said.
Small screen stops staring
Scary scenes start surging
Cooking curling puzzling procrastinating
Fantasizing she living
Horse’s shod feet ring
On bricks leading to the river.
Towboat’s small light wobbles
Though the cold sunrise fog.
— Jo Schaper
10:23 p.m. seven gunshots, maybe
feet pounding alley bricks, east
maybe toward the river
full moon dazzling light
bright but no one sees, after
no witness, no siren, no body
small war, small recompense
Small bare feet skip across sun-baked brick,
sundress trailing, the lace eyelets winking as the light sneaks a final glance
before it fades.
Humidity-swaddled adults lower themselves onto rickety folding chairs
which sag and tip awkwardly, threatening to discharge their contents.
Summer at the River is fireflies and sunscreen, arrowheads and pebbles.
It is ear infections, corn cobs, sticks, and stubbed toes.
Summer at the River is where memory peeks in,
gently, fondly, to sneak a final glance
before it fades.
— Rebecca Lester
I imagine my first home—
brick walls, soft wood floor
to track my small feet.
I see love-worn doorknobs—
brassed, light, river-steamed.
— Sabrina Spence
Brick forms a warm path
leads to the river, where small
feet scatter light-splash!
— Bernie Mossotti
Headline image: Eugenio Mazzone on Unsplash