We started a Round Robin story at the Grind Writers table at the Summer Dreams Literary Arts fest. It was was such a beautiful day--the sun and the seaside, and the dozens of poets reading and slamming, gulls, BBQ fragrances wafting on the wind, workshops, face-painting and wonderful blues--that I'm afraid we didn't get very far with the story.
However, we were fortunate to have George Bowering, Canada’s first Poet Laureate, start it off.
I think he was being a bit of an imp. He looks like he is capable of great naughtiness, don't you think?
If you'd like to add to the story with its auspicious beginnings, please do - and send me your bit in an email to (wonderwords@shaw.ca) and I'll post it up. The ///s indicate a new person is writing.
However, we were fortunate to have George Bowering, Canada’s first Poet Laureate, start it off.
I think he was being a bit of an imp. He looks like he is capable of great naughtiness, don't you think?
If you'd like to add to the story with its auspicious beginnings, please do - and send me your bit in an email to (wonderwords@shaw.ca) and I'll post it up. The ///s indicate a new person is writing.
________________________
Rooting around in an old trunk in Mom’s attic after she died, I froze when I found /// myself covered in ice cubes. After the cubes began to melt suddenly I had this urge for peanut butter. Realizing, or maybe thinking, I was hungry, I headed down the crickety stairs she had always wanted painted--and I never did--to the kitchen. /// the pungent aroma of fresh Cuban coffee hung thick in the air, wrapping me in her embrace, leading me to the sultry yellow cup beckoning me to touch it. ///
But I didn’t…how could I?--he was holding it. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
