For in all that foraging, through the minds eye To kindle the peace; to wounds You might try to placate With words, in that private high. To some, you would care With their souls laid bare And their supplicants made aware! How goes it with you? With the Word on your back As you weave and tack Through life’s raging sea? Are your thoughts with creased brow Or caressed as you bow Like the willow, weeping at the world? So then, take my soul and do what you will, For I yearn for your favour, still.
I'm married, fifty seven years of age with two grown up sons. I work at the local railway station in customer service. I have always enjoyed writing poetry and short stories but for the past twenty years I have not written anything because the stream had stopped flowing and had all dried up. Lately someone had admired my recent work and opened up the log jam that had been there all that time and let the stream flow again. It is a great feeling and release.
The hand comes out of the rubble to throw the musky odor of a cross-legged monk under the ginkgo tree. An apparition comes outside the body of a fan-shaped snake; ignites the wolf. We were hungry, we were thirsty. Untwining
Like tussoh, I collect snow after the blizzard, churning the quartz, O December. Time to hang my boots and listen the call to quarters. Windows would kill me. I had my horrors I had my wine. The moon was still
Melancholic – she be described He says, turn the curve my child Dances she, feet on thorn Refashion thy scorn Darkness, she, into the wild Beloved, behold – nature beguiled Cries she – eyes dry Withhold, let me sigh Not