Window Tree
My November Guest
A Lecture upon a shadow
White Waves - 26 February 2015
Buzzing around the house on espresso
Just now ~ W.S.Marwin
Poetry *
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Mushrooms
Poem (Fragment)
Homeless not Hopeless - 26 November 2017
Roots
Window Tree
Consolation
"Day and Night" ~ Tiutchev
Tread softly …
I wandered lonely as a cloud
Tree at my window
Crocus
Relutance
A luna esta sahindo
ever-the-road Thomas Hardy
"Reference Back"
Concepción
The Dragon Fly
Gift
Willows are willows everywhere
Yes
The Wheel
I'm not a person
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Celebration
You sit in a chair, touched by nothing, feeling
The old self become older self, imagining
Only the patience of water, the boredom of a stone.
You think that silence is the extra page,
............................................
And the miraculous hours of childhood wander in darkness
Excerpt: “In celebration” ~
The old self become older self, imagining
Only the patience of water, the boredom of a stone.
You think that silence is the extra page,
............................................
And the miraculous hours of childhood wander in darkness
Excerpt: “In celebration” ~
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the old self become the older self, imagining
only the patience of water, the boredom of stone.
You think that silence is the extra page,
you think that nothing is good or bad, not even
the darkness that fills the house while you sit watching
it happen. You’ve seen it happen before. Your friends
move past the window, their faces soiled with regret.
You want to wave but cannot raise your hand.
You sit in a chair. You turn to the nightshade spreading
a poisonous net around the house. You taste
the honey of absence. It is the same wherever
you are, the same if the voice rots before
the body, or the body rots before the voice.
You know that desire leads only to sorrow, that sorrow
leads to achievement which leads to emptiness.
You know that this is different, that this
is the celebration, the only celebration,
that by giving yourself over to nothing,
you shall be healed. You know there is joy in feeling
your lungs prepare themselves for an ashen future,
so you wait, you stare and you wait, and the dust settles
and the miraculous hours of childhood wander in darkness.
Poet : Mark Strand
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