“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, February 20, 2023
Natural selection
Sunday, September 18, 2022
Happily
After all
that Time,
Eighteen years
Ends
Alone
I can do
what I want
what
Do I want-when
happiest
Ever-after
all...
Isn't that
how fairy tales
End?
Painting by Hermann Koch c. before 1939) in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, September 8, 2022
Beauty mark
What a triumph it is
To truly love something
About your own
Body.
Before the crash and
Burn,
I remember turning to him
as we drove by
Our ocean,
and posing to him-
Which one of my moles
Do you like the best?
He was smiling
Anyway and said
I love it too...
And I knew
The end.
Painting by August Macke, 'Couple at the garden table' c. 1914, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, April 17, 2020
Short-sighted
En route
observe by taking in
filters
your immediate surroundings,
eyes touching face coverings,
nothing could effectively hide
what is done
inside
is being done by undoing,
by implementing more restrictions
moving
others to do the same.
We stay
inside,
like obedient house-pets
longing for fresh air
hanging our heads
out the window
we notice
how it smells
like something new.
Pacing ourselves
replaces racing toward the End where
no meetings will take place-
in person
there is less
to get, less we can do, less available, less security,
less was nevermore than just enough.
What goes around
in circles
gets smaller, our circles ellipse
until we end
up
with no points
of contact.
We leave the blanks
instead of filling our barrels with ammunition,
from six feet away
we look the same underneath
our personal protection,
mortal and our skin feels too thin.
We covered our bases
and dirt floors
until the rug unraveled
leaving the looming
predictions
dyed without a pattern.
Photograph credit: Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer, 1941 in Public domain.
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
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Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...