As a young thrush in first flight,
or unsteady lamb down mountain rock…
So Nature falls from lofty heat
into Autumn and her bed of sunset garlands
then galloping on Aeolus’s Steeds, turns
north to the slow, transfixing kisses of Frost
But, falling, her clouds wreath blue horizons
and aires of festival entreat
ever to taste her faithful bounty
and beckon to free her laden vines
A few years ago I posted something about how lucky I was to have found my wife (then fiancée) because of her unusual taste in TV. It was tongue-in-cheek, of course, because there were and are a lot more reasons to be thankful for her. At the time, however, it seemed funny to me so I posted it as “How to Know If You’ve Found the Right One“.
Now, more than three years later, I find that someone clicked into my blog after searching for “how do you know when you found the one” and finding that link.
This wouldn’t be that remarkable, except for the fact that my blog is not likely to come up at the top of many vague search engine results. I’m not even sure how far back in that search you’d have to go to find my entry, but I’d imagine it’s in the realm of twenty to thirty pages of search results. (Note: a few more clicks and searchs {combined with this blog post} have upped my ranking, ironically enough, to page four of google search results) Read More
rewinding in segments
the lever gives pause
for bold play in the past-times
for warding off thoughts
memos random to find
memos rise to forget
and make peace with confusion
a tao of loss
Where linchpins delve
and draw forth clubs;
Point weaves a cypher
and tacks mark finance.
In their subconscious,
The left hand grip scribbling,
outreaches for catskills
carves folds in our minds
Arrest in an aria
a ransom of breath.
A runnel’s aphasia
The press corps sits mute…
Cog/wire/crypt/drake
Lock compressed retinae;
lids spasming, birth visions,
and beg to awake
Pen-tips stab and carve script thoughtless
with tongues of fox-fire round my neck.
and floor-boards blaze with swampgas visions
all clocks perch rigid, hands held tall…
Eyes all-seeing, sons of Argus
and piteous spectres peek past panes
but it’s no letter, or invitation;
Malign jibes in soft quatrains
Read like a offer from arachnids
To sweetly mend my sweater
tiny fingers tangle pressing
spark my soul, arcs tracing lines.
the laughter in her warm, soft face
speaks a silent choice to mine.
