Composite Poem (written with a stranger).

I went to a class at the Hugo House last night. It was about organic poetry and was geared toward teachers of creative writing. There was none of the usual basic craft discussion, which was awesome because I've heard it, and I sat in a room filled with mostly middle aged white women. We did a number of exercises to access our subconscious minds and silence our internal editors (which I've been trying to do for months) and this was one of the things that came out of it:

When tuplis burst like open
mouths, the bees buzz
in a crowded hall
of yellow and orange, and
heat flames from chill
blue ice.

She tells me I need to stop
calling her name,
but I don't anymore.
Folded into my pocket, I
keep it up son, keep
it close to my heart
because I told you so
and you know I
hate it when you--

I see you when you
stop by the trailer
court, and all the darlings and
the bird that lands
on tiny petals sprouting
blue and purple and
gold winters.

I know. It's not the most amazing thing ever, but I love how my mind imposes a narrative on this. The exercise was pretty simple (try it with a stranger! or a friend!). Write one line and one word. Fold the page so only the one word shows. Pass it to your partner, who will complete the line and add one word on the next line. Have them fold it and pass it back. Rinse and repeat as needed.

Have fun!