All words are fragments
in thought
and on the page.
The act of reading
brings life
to that
which cannot
exist
with
out
us.
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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
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▼
2015
(328)
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▼
April
(32)
- Kindness and Happiness
- Taking Root
- Nesting
- Hold my hand as it were your heart.
- Being Your Own God
- Association
- Unchained Ephemera
- On Thrift Stores
- RE: The Muse
- Dirt
- Freewrite 4/21/15
- There is a particular wisdom in understanding that...
- A selfish hand and a hungry mouth are not to be...
- Simply Enough
- Why must we define WANT and NEED?
- My imaginary life and my real life long to be to...
- The Inner Lives of Books
- If you are ready to listen I am ready to speak.
- I Remembered Her Tonight
- Is the wind one voice speaking in many different ...
- Hardhat Area
- Fat Head
- It is morning Open the blinds Let the light in
- Dear Friend
- An Answer. A Truth.
- Consent
- Giving Life
- Farming
- Impermanence
- On Promises
- The Push of Waves
- Heart of the Ocean
-
▼
April
(32)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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