Day Sixteen
We slip down the steps
with the dust and the lizards.
Past imagined arches and
dreamt-up mosaics.
Long dead masons
ate olives and bread here.
Curious dolphins
watched them depart.
The dry, hot brushwood
once whispered to bulls.
But speaks not of ruin
in time's labyrinth.
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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