and breathes
over and over.
She changes colors
in unceasing
seasons.
Geese land
on the lake.
Ripples to
the shore.
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