I never speak
but rather
words escape
a cut of blood -
a sudden exhalation -
of flying uncertainty.
I never think
as traffic bound
by systematic
thoroughfares, but
I careen - gawky
at the peddles -
only to catch up later.
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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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