Soft pastels seep
into the canvas
Lines blur at
the edges
Tenderness writ
through color
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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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