… there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own...– Bryon
‘jennet, my last child,’
and if i never knew why the morning sun contracts to starry sky, that ignorance would be a great strength. For grief outlast the human life in length. * but as it is, this knowledge is a kiss so burdened by its wantonness of bliss. Those lips are dry and weathered by the sun. * That mother loved you as that life begun. so crawl into your sheets Resigned with this day’s passing. Know with...
of gratitude to our fathers
A wisp of main, fray and uneven, hung from a pallid face Bloated in misery, lessened by love of kin, father stands wearily. Stand he does in the eye of adversity Old and New and memory and moment. Fat Old Heathen whose kindness retains In the life he hath made for his self: i am grateful.
Impatient are you, in the heat of the sea. And hours, once gifts, now burdens to thee, Separate you and the sweetly mown grass: from the very nonsense you so wish to pass. Wait, each moment should’st treasure in one, For gifts are aplenty in the details you run So quickly right over with predestined time, For does not the journey, for mortals, rewind?
Pardon, father, for I have been A morning summer here again. Excuse its warmth and kindly wind. Pardon what it blew to mind. Excuse me mother, the time you lent, Was short lived dust, I never meant To blow away the sacrifice Of a jaded artifice.
A car door slams to the chirp of a finch Whilst conversations climb through a nearby old sink Whose faucet is dripping to the rhythm known By each stranger here whom fortune hath sown. Despite one’s reservation to uphold a song That rhythm finds way ‘bout the trail one move along. O engine, you start with the ebb of a wave: Some constant white noise we’d rather deprave. These...
bonnie boy — shirley collins
Sweet Hope, so oft my childhood’s friend, I will believe thee still, For...– Robert Bloomfield’s “Rosamond’s Song of Hope”
Imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, “This is an interesting...– Douglas Adams (via xineann) (via thehermitage)
So many faces are at the crossings of a slow existence close to the same...– Jean Follain
A child is born into a great landscape Half a century later he’s...– Jean Follain