“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Homelessness
It is an ordinary thing:
a baby looking over the shoulder,
a child transfixed,
because they sense mother-ness or homeliness
I guess.
Then the cats,
the felines that follow
nearly silently,
like the prowling puma in the wilderness
they all watch back from the bush-
paw prints have proven this-
And then the ways skittish strays
locate
remembering how to purr...
Nary a soul sees the magic in these,
except
the extraordinary poet
who thinks one blink, and it could all
change.
Photo Credit © CEphoto, Uwe Aranas / ,via Wikimedia Commons at (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bangkok_Thailand_Stray-cat-in-Wat-Hua-Lamphong-01.jpg)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
(Bone pile)
My lips are sealed with The caulk of deaf ears. Born for this. Lessons to be learned as chapters Turned Over, like how to read our bodies ...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...
No comments:
Post a Comment