Due to a technical glitch, it looks like this post was deleted, leaving only a “Second” experimental poem. The experiment was to take a short poem or several orphan lines with nowhere to go, and from there do some free-writing or wild-writing based on the first lines to see where it leads. I’ve been working with Lewis Oakwood on this as-yet-unnamed form. It is an inversion of the usual way of free-writing first, then editing down. Here is the first attempt:
LINE EXCAVATIONS, ARCHAEOLOGIES
I.
It’s not about the tremble on your tongue
It’s in the taste of mountains
the colour of wind
the bitter voice of herbs
the texture of air
the tremor of red stones
II.
Imagine a mountain taste: salt, bitter, earth taste
pyrite (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
a hint of old sock and worm perhaps mold
the metallic iron nuances of fool’s gold, mint, almond
a trickle of fresh melt and shell
Imagine. What is the colour of wind? It pulls blue from the air
folds it into white filtered through smog and rain
from the west it shatters into grey, white from the south and north
marine blue moving west from the east coast of Greenland and
when it rises upward fades into black and stars
Imagine you hear the bitter voice of herbs. Is it a low mutter gutteral
or a high clear C-note above sound? Does it resonate?
A bounce-back beat a staccato stack of jazz riff searching for a melody
or a thrum drum hum just north of subsound— does it incline, lean, a little hot
and mean, toward a little subterranean Mediterranean Latin lilt tilt?
imagine the texture of air, a lightweight seersucker suit, a mixed brew of scent
and twinge, eau of meadow and l’air du city smoke, a soupçon of cloud, sieved
through a fine mist of rain, snow and fresh with fragrance of sun.
English: Ayers Rock, Uluru, Australia Deutsch: Ayers Rock, Uluru, Australien (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I’ve seen the tremor of red stones.
How they tremble at the clap of thunder,
huddle together under harsh storm. Each shiver
a glimpse of glint on rounded shoulder, lined
with spidery veins of silver and gold granite,
but though they tremble they will not break,
and they will never let you see their heart.
Carol A. Stephen
May 8, 2014
Quillfyre 
Those last two lines are killer!
Although the image of red stones trembling came a long time ago, those last two lines were based on images in a poem I had read in April, Wisława Szymborska’s “Conversation with a Stone” here: http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2014/04/09/national-poetry-month-poetry-dare-wislawa-szymborskas-conversation-stone/