one by one
scattered by the wind.
Collecting in gutters,
raked in yards,
tossed into dumpsters
and forgotten.
Their season has come
and now
they wander
so far from those
bare branches.
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It's always getting late.
When I am not writing this is what I do.
"In the present we are always in memory." - Trish Keenan
It's always getting late.
Introduction
This blog is a virtual notebook of writing that I maintain as often as I can. Poems, stray lines, random observations, all co-exist here. Revisions occur as needed/deemed fit.
See/Hear
A Chronological Archive of Joy and Heartache most often referred to as LIFE
-
▼
2010
(584)
-
▼
April
(47)
- Prove Me Wrong, You Can't
- Breaking Glass Back Into Form
- Wails
- Dog Days
- MmAaDdNnEeSsSs
- Ritual
- Choker
- My Best Friend The Stranger
- Good Mourning
- Of Bossa & King Louie
- People
- Obfuscate
- Blurry Eyed Expectation
- Guilty As Charged
- For You.
- Not Found
- A Place
- Wails, Whales, Wales & Wailes.
- Turning Sand Into Glass
- Ink & Pen
- Buscando
- Seen
- Harrow
- Composer
- 135th & Prairie
- Meditation On This World
- Violets
- Phaedrus
- BritLit-ism
- Midnight and the Hours Beyond
- Past Haunts
- Spirits
- Forest Fire
- Zen
- Substance
- Consummate Consumption
- Brakes
- Seasons
- Forgetter
- Sera Un Monte de Oro (Pictures, Distance & Proximity)
- Dreams
- Koan?
- Breaking Stones
- Pretty Pretty
- Good Friday At Park Pantry
- And
- Thoughts From Work
-
▼
April
(47)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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