more than we'll ever know.
She tends to all her children
but only we have remade her
in our own image.
Mother, we are but children.
Forgive our immaturity.
Bring us into the light of the Sun.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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
-
▼
2022
(201)
-
▼
October
(30)
- In Search of Divinity
- We cannot be part of this worldif we do not allow ...
- Beacon
- All of Her
- Plasma
- Another Time, Another Place
- The Waves
- From Here I Watch
- La Bruja Blanca
- Haunting
- Sleeping In
- Northeast Morning
- SilenceMoving throughthe early morningIt pauses Lo...
- Palms to the Heavens
- Nearness
- We Are Here
- An eternal kissSea and ShoreBound effortlessly
- Where The Night Ends
- She
- I can forgive so I doand I will as oftenas I can t...
- Our Mother
- How good to knowwe'll see each other and cross the...
- Learning to Run
- We live with our choicesand actionsWe alone bear t...
- Honesty
- Eternal Life
- Into Being
- Shanti Om
- Five-Fifteen A.M.
- The feelings wash over meAs if I'd been knocked ov...
-
▼
October
(30)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
No comments:
Post a Comment