Tag Archives: Poetry
It’s not really me, but more, well, I suppose you: nothing personal. Advertisements
The ongoing rabble and cinematic narrative in my mind is finding how nourishing and full and tender the heart can grow steeped in silence alone.
Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.
Traveling mapless backroads, I found heaven looking for me.
Out of the ash-heap, she imagined something new would emerge, but when the wind blew and scattered the ashes to reveal nothing but scorch-marks upon scarred earth, she understood, with a great sense of loss, that form followed function only … Continue reading
The simpling of the heart as it pours fast light into a rimless cup.
I was young, fevered and full of hope. My heart, green in its country, desired to push lightning through blooms, to cherish brightly in a thousand different directions at once. It was and always has been about rounding dreams from … Continue reading
The porchlight in one’s personal heaven is always on, solace through staid aureole for orphans wandering heartsick in the dark.
Reality and me have disagreements all the time. Reality is, by nature, inviolable. And a bit of an existential bully. I am, by illicit union, a child of fiction. And tender in the center. Reality and me don’t always see … Continue reading
The tenderest means to a true center is through loss accepted gracefully and yes praised.