“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label when I. Show all posts
Showing posts with label when I. Show all posts
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Making myself scarce
When the door latches,
when it is only me
in this shrinking body,
when all I must do
is what I must,
when I start to feel lucky
I must be blessed,
when I am rested
I think of aging,
when I am tired
I remember dying,
when I wake up
when I reach for a pen,
I am alive. I am living.
Image credit Joseph-Philibert Girault de Prangey, 1840 self portrait in[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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...
-
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...