Tweetspeak is teaming up with Patty Paine, of Diode Poetry Journal, to jumpstart a Phone Poets Project for National Poetry Month.

Using a paragraph of prose from Kristin LeMay's "I Told My Soul To Sing," Kimberlee Conway Ireton crafts -- and explains how to write -- a found poem.

Years ago, I had the privilege of rubbing eyeballs with royalty. Flanked by an impressive retinue of distinguished figure heads, the fair-skinned and curly-haired king stood before a hushed audience at my university and delivered a cultural manifesto on the artist's role in creating the juxtaposition of political and religious imagery to benefit and protect society. But I was more interested in his shoes.

A few days after we announced our July Mosaics project, someone left us a tiny confession in the comment box. "When this idea was first posted, wrote Rosanne Osborne, "I admit I was dubious, but it’s been amazing to me how generative the experience has been."

Ben Henderson's new wobble was supposed to be the secret weapon he needed to save his career.

We buy a couple of corn dogs and head over to the free stage. My eyes wander off and I see a teenage girl standing on the back of a motorized wheelchair, lurching left and right, while her driver zig-zags across Main Street like a Hollywood stunt driver. I'm thankful city planners have shut down the streets to car traffic. Not just for the jazz festival. But so people can move, for four days, any way they choose.

Jazz is what happens to all of us -- when somebody jumps out of her box.

Jazz great Art Blakey #once said, "Music washes away the dust of every day life." With a pair of drumsticks, he did just that, uncovering a new style of bebop drumming. He gave music a new shine. Poetry scrubs us down with a back-and-forth hygiene, too.

The best in poetry, (and poetic things), this week with Matthew Kreider.

May Play began with a chance conversation with the owner of a candy shop.

Light pours through the west end and floods the wooden floors of our home. James is in the front room, dancing. His clunky, horse-like heels stomp to a syncopated rhythm, following the dizzy-eyed direction of his four-year-old vision, rather than my music.