Poetry Rule #2 – it is perfect-
ly acceptable to fall asleep mid-
line. This applies whether you be
writer or reader, though its most
usual occurrence is with the reader.
Archive for November, 2015
Also, did I tell you how my family photograph album disappeared from where I’d left it to cool on the windowsill like a blueberry pie?
In the hospital I was appalled by the attitude of some of the sick people. Why me? they would moan. Why me? Well, why anything? Life is little more than the flutter of a bird’s wing.
such happiness as there is
shall be documented
We ate all the seed potatoes;
we have only ourselves to blame; we were peckish.
our lamentations our misery
the road signs the malls the concert halls the
blank faces and their marks of woe
how shall I ever convince anyone of my innocence?
these are diminished lines I have given up
caring about entertaining myself
Here we are, hammocks swinging, red wine splashing
and sploshing and staining my virginal gown how
can I go to the dance blemished thus?
The seasons in their moods
morning and evening
winds in their different tempers
trees, waters and mists
shades and silences
and the voices of inanimate things