“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.”Robert Graves
Curvaceous, edged, tender and frail, some deep emerald, others pale. Long and slender, jagged and pointed, glossy coating, matte finish. A rustle in the leaves, nature’s perfection, without blemish. I spy with my little eye a red bird that lets out a sigh. The trees shake and shimmer as he bounces aloft. Another blissful morningContinue reading “Leaves and Trees, Oh My!”
The world is too big. Fraught with opportunity and displays of power, of lust, and of greed, the world is too big. Too many options, too may paths, Too many stories to be told and books to be learned. An oyster or a canyon? The vast expanse of our consciousness echoes out through the ages,Continue reading “The Big World”
To the outsider. To the stranger. To the misfit and the misunderstood. To those without community, the outlier with no home and no pride. Solitary – the lone wolf, passing by unnoticed. To those who walk a path of silence. The footsteps you hear are only your own. You speak, yet no one is aroundContinue reading “Solitude”
I have echoes.
She has ghosts.
I have echoes of grief, of strain and pain and agony.
She has ghosts that haunt her waking hour and monsters that peek behind curtains drawn….
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