Day Eight
Yesterday twenty daffodils were murdered,
scythed down in their prime and left to wilt.
I think a heartsick gardener, on a spring walk,
had thought fuck this. My heart can't contain
this rage and my soul can't stand
a gleeful thing for one more moment.
And who's to say that's not gardening?
After all, life is just feeding then cutting at stuff.
Paint Poem
Day Thirty I like a poem because it's not like a painting. Because I'll confidently cradle something stainless; hold the exceptio...
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Day 2 Simple fingers to the string What a little thing to cultivate, unreal as it is; not to be seen or touched but felt, enduring, where so... -
Day Nineteen In our village by the mountain, there lived A man p eople called The Wrestler , It was long ago, when my dad was a kid. He - ... -
So, two weeks in and I'm somewhat surprised to find myself sticking at this poetry malarkey. In fact I'm enjoying it very much. To...
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