poetry~

Flow, Earth

We haven't room to simply let down our hair and full-Being flow anymore (. . .  did we ever? We try at clubs, through music laughter and loving children, through food and hobbies, but We live lives of stuttering action pinned like fading butterflies to an event-oriented oblivion. It's not modernity but rather the building…Read more Flow, Earth

i dream of rosehip tea.

it was months ago when i picked rosehips along my path home by the sea, slipping each one like a little gold nugget into the pockets of my grey, zip-up jumper. i’d imagined doing it so many, many times, like a child in a candy shop, reaching up to pluck the beauties down; this time,…Read more i dream of rosehip tea.

…That Thing with Wings

Autumn breathes on my face from afar — so fresh! — stirring every unique nerve ending to sudden, electric life. As if my mother’s cool hand rested gently on my arm, I’m startled awake. And out from the ashes of languid, summer days, my heart rises up and up, spiralling higher, higher, and higher still, feathered and beating…Read more …That Thing with Wings

Capital

you reach out a hand to pull sky down the stars, yes the heavens themselves are but bread to you, so break it, break it all upon the ground, shake this broken universe until it begs for release from the ungodly bass of your voice; your ego polishes its own brass to trumpet a truth…Read more Capital

Poet (dried).

This is trench warfare. As bloody useless and harrowing as. No one really gains ground. No one really wins. Even waiting or withholding takesone to the grave, one torn limb at a time, a burning treespitting firey sapdesperately - not to live, you understandbut simply to discharge excess energy.I could throw some aged work your…Read more Poet (dried).

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…Read more Pores

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…Read more Oliver Wendell Holmes

hovering

I am gluttonous for life and all things life. --- Something, /////// contrary to popular opinion, never comes from something else but always rather ///////// in some fundamental way from nothing. --- (hovering over the waters) --- out of the emptiness /////////////// comes potential ///// --------- realized, ////////////////// Now. --- --- c. Kate Gough, 2015