Crying in my arms
I feel the strength of your small lungs
Cry cry cry
Little Darling
until you settle into calm
Close your eyes
I will hold you
until you are ready for your crib
to rest
to sleep
to dream
things I could not believe
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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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▼
2015
(328)
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▼
July
(22)
- There is beauty in this world and I must run to it.
- A sound as though the bowels of Heaven itself wer...
- Aging
- If I were the new you.
- A Mother is the beginning of your world and for a ...
- The beginning of the universe was an act of hope ...
- We would still be fools even if we read all the bo...
- Why must I believe in anything when there are no i...
- nature remembers seasons are proof of order ants i...
- I See
- An Eraser That Can't Be Seen
- Even her beauty was not enough to save her.
- Rearview
- Giving Up the Ghost
- Weird Wolf
- I often think of being young and not being anyone.
- To Rest
- where does the nest rest in the branches of the tr...
- Glass Figurine
- Winding down the 4th
- I'll give you something to drink about.
- I awoke to find a garden in my mind.
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▼
July
(22)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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