Boom, Boom, Boom, Tick, Bang, Wallop

The soldiers prepare, prepare.

Their thoughts wear uniforms

Their memories blink in the too bright sun

Where ravens and crows play with matches

All is well as dusk comes

Stillness after the sound of guns

The memories drip, running into a stream

A stream of consciousness; drip, drip, drip

Dirty water, no taste.

Tainted air, no smell.

This is a collective poem from the Literary Potlatch, written by the participants on the day, with each of them only able to see the previous line.  At present, the image accompanying it is a stock photo but we would really love someone to respond to the poem visually, as only an original image can possibly do it justice. Full credit will of course be given. Please email rochesterlitfest@gmail.com if you’re interested in creating something special we can share. Thank you 🙂