If I do not keep walking
my feet will take root in the ground
my arms will become branches bearing fruit
and my leaves will rustle at the touch
of an evening breeze
Memory will drain from me
Soaking soil
the land and I become one
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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
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▼
April
(32)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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