Category: Art
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This foggy rain
Standing in this foggy rain, it is reasonable, no, expected, to mark a little obscure, so let me begin to explain why poetry would have no need to be written if we all stood here right now in this foggy rain, cold dampness seeping through, its heavy cedar and pine its drizzling down the world…
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The sea, my sea
The sea does not love me nor does it love me not it just pays no mind as it swells and moans pregnant with stories it cannot, dares not, wills not to speak The sea does not note that I am here nor does it note me not, its massive expanse absorbed in thoughts it…
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Day 30
April is perfect in all conceivable ways apart from the pining separation from November’s divine dark
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Day 28
alike from afar but endlessly varied stitches line the edges of all we touch of our made being
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Day 26
long ago atop this wooded hill, breeze tossing leaves, Emerson’s pages ruffling, a habitat discovered
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Day 25
even the sundial loses all track of time following the breeze swarm through our sea of fresh pine needles
Poems from in between 