Blooming flower at the edge of Winter
Your face basks in the chill of dawn
We gaze upon each other
Many lives
Many forms ago
Yet we are unchanged
in our flowered essence
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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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▼
October
(39)
- Eternal Shores
- first calling
- Current Forms
- even summer flees warm mornings give way to grey ...
- We wish to protect the innocent as long as we can ...
- rise
- morning 10/24/17
- Morning 10/23/17
- The Old Shack
- Eventually. everything is about death. Surely, we...
- Stay focused on the small tasks in order to slowl...
- Routine
- Abstract and Concrete
- Have you awaken I think of you even now My former ...
- a path to better
- Morning 10/17/17
- Crucible in a Death Hand Will you accept the ugli...
- The Way to Where?
- Morning 10/16/17
- cool morning dry wind passing through season of bu...
- Past & Memory
- How long must this eternity be?
- Wolves & Daggers Young Days, Old Memories
- Awake Arise Air of life Breath of dawn Coolness on...
- And
- Oh, Honey
- How many years gone? How many remain?
- Calling life by name What words escape your lips O...
- Places to Go, Parts to Play
- Empties
- There are people staring There are people who alwa...
- incarnation of this life existing in this time for...
- lay down your words
- Color / Birth / Rhythm
- Unconditional Kindness
- Sleep
- Looking for peace in a world torn apart by madness...
- Waking and breathing Normal gift given over and ov...
- Present and Afterwards
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▼
October
(39)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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