contact.

stars spark in the blackened deep:
fingertips of the gods (carefully holding
in bright hands a ravaged planet, burnt flowers
drifting down from each. point. of. contact.

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Pores

The world gets into our pores
and writes on us

lines with the clay of
earth, warmth of sun
bite of wind caress ;

sorrow & joy clog our faces
with our insides, the experience of
our lived Grind:connected.

Existentially, we are slow-born sculptures
that tell of a daring hand
a fiery eye, laced with Power and Love

Why hide it?
you can tell a lot by the face of a man
who hasn’t washed it all away.

c. Kate Gough

Oliver Wendell Holmes


When I feel inclined to read poetry, I take down my dictionary. The poetry

of words is quite as beautiful as the poetry of sentences. The author may
arrange the gems effectively, but their shape and lustre have been given by
the attrition of ages.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,

writer and physician (1809-1894)