For every blue, a craving burns orange; for every violet, flames a yellow desire; in every hot heart smolders embers of emerald. And every white hunger ashes a black want.
Snow sifting through thorns:: old couple:: no need to speak of odor of roses.
Underwater liver, hider behind rotted sog logs mover that moves in a quiver from dark water to darker, I lure you with plastic pollywog from water. Avid hand distorts in reach to retrieve you, refracted numbed else thing underwater, touches slick shiver never knew before. You bring so much (not to mind, for mind cannot … Continue reading A Fish
Spring will come; knowing this grows hope in winter, A grass under these thin drifts. Always spring has come with Her solace, Her winged sky her chick-a-dee in the willow. But comes a Spring with famine gathered in the gray skirts of this thin snow– Comes round at last, Her dark birds gyring a desert … Continue reading What Shape is This?
the vast winter sky with its few ragged geese Vs silent of “chick-a-dee”
Between marble sky and snow hissing over snow— wind-ragged magpie
Lee Robison's poem "They Wheel him Out," which first appeared here on Writlee.com has just been posted on Drabble (They Wheel Him out). We really like the illustration Drabble selected for this poem. Thanks
We had only cameras and yearning, but the wind rasped stone like a hot tongue, and camera and yearning were not enough to savor the ripening along the Jordan River, the salt sea, that bitter Wilderness wind and the candescent wafer of the sun. We entered the chapel, hoping for respite, ease, relief. There were … Continue reading American Christians Visit Mt. Nebo
Perhaps, not so oddly, the first thing the word "lumber" prompted to me is the dark poem "Out, Out" by Robert Frost. It can be found on the "Poets.Org" website at: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/out-out– I could/might also post this in response to the Word of The Day Challenge, immature, though the narrative is not about an "immature" … Continue reading “Out, Out,” by Robert Frost
Max: Most of my life I’ve believed what these eyes see these hands can touch, that seeing and touching, being touched, ends when they nail the coffin lid on. But, my mother, your grandma, had the last word on this creed the fall after she died, when I saw her one last time. I’d started … Continue reading Hunter’s Visitation