Plight of the Poet

We are the children of memory, which seems so unreal now, when childhood a distant dream. It’s hard to imagine you once were young, it’s...

Not all pebbles are in focus, not all dreams are still there when you wake, not all memories retain their luminosity, because life would...

Everywhere the gray-green came up to Meet the dying winter sky And the trees amongst them Were heavy with longing for The Spring that...

The poet is a procrastinator. He goes out of his way to find other things to put his mind to. The poet knows everything else he does...

i wondered if you had the time of day it wouldn’t suit you if i did and so one swears that, after all of this un-going, this is where it...

Where then have all the beleaguered thoughts disappeared? They tarry into yesteryear. What state of such recompose has lingered in that...