The park ranger herded us down
the chained path sloping into the earth
until we came to a cathedral
where columns of rock caught the light
The Poem was worried. He’d heard rumors of Rondels in other lands being infested with illogic, and there was no known cure.
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I think of Fats Waller whose left hand leaped down the keys, showing the path for every jazz pianist who followed, including the great Art Tatum and the minor Billy Joel.
This post marks the beginning of a new irregular feature in Vox Populi. I hope readers of Vox Populi, many of whom are writers, will find the prompt helpful in stimulating their creativity.
It’s the old dancers that fascinate me.
Training everyday as the body resists,
The spirit lifts them into clarity.
A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.