Can it ever be said
that trees can whistle
when they have nothing
resembling lips?
Secret creep.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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
-
▼
2015
(328)
-
▼
March
(24)
- Notebook Dump #18
- Notebook Dump #16
- Notebook Dump #15
- Are we so helpless? Are we more than this? Caught ...
- Salting the earth beneath our feet, The future gro...
- Even The Turkey Could Say Nothing
- Tidal Song
- Keeping Time
- All this boredom is mine.
- Hollow Rabbit
- Thrown Into The Water
- Sunset 3/23/15
- The Preacher
- Monsters Who Became Men
- postcard in the mail memories tied together we sti...
- Sleep whenever
- Something and Nothing
- Flowers & Fruit
- Ask if I love you Does the Sun long for the Moon ...
- Childhood
- Alone together in our solitude
- Encompass
- Real Lives
- How long must we live in these castles of our bor...
-
▼
March
(24)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
No comments:
Post a Comment