fields of morning beckon
from your bed you rise
do not look for me here
open the door
though the grass I've run
beneathe the canopy of trees
I'll be there waiting
bathing in life
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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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2017
(526)
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February
(33)
- Lourdes
- Home Is No Destination
- If not for darkness How would we know the dawn?
- peaceful dawn of day waiting for the peal of bells...
- Don't ever believe your youth to be everlasting.
- Our Love
- Movement
- This Gift
- Facing morning light Eyes open into a squint Ligh...
- Making promises How easily we do this Much harder ...
- Hands glide over keys Your feet picking up the bea...
- Children of Alice Voices speaking together Do this...
- Aging in reverse Watching time become undone Birth...
- Resemble meaning Order these words into sense Do y...
- Empty are your hands Hammer without a master Come ...
- A Reason to Smile A Reason to Live
- Gift
- Through the Fields
- Beat moves along slow How long will you follow it ...
- Water kissing sand The beach is never lonely Alway...
- Birds of morning call To one another they speak Do...
- Tired eyes open Thoughts drift in and out of view ...
- How is desire found Warmly and suddenly now Wet ki...
- Seeping through the blinds Morning touches skin so...
- Temper Balance To place ourselves in control and ...
- "I've got to keep control." - Worker Bee, 'Cold Ra...
- Door of Morning
- A Sea of Sunken Stars.
- Listening
- 7 Haiku for a Saturday Morning
- Dancing by yourself in your room Waiting for the r...
- Once Upon A Time
- You'll be happier when you're not so sad.
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▼
February
(33)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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