Grief never ends. But it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, It is the price of love. – Often attributed to Queen Elizabeth II, it’s also associated with a passage, though not verbatim, from a work by Dr. Parkes. In truth, the real author is… Continue reading Unknown
Your warm fingers softly caressed my spinal bridge; a place where it is solemn and quiet, beneath my midnight hair, and sleeping at the top of my vertebrae. —Grover Helatino
If I Can’t Love You If I can’t love you, then I want to live on some blind sea,Wherever the freighters squint along the horizon,Wherever it is your look arrives from, that is, whereverThe branches dream of rain, wherever your goodbyeGrasps the stems of stars, someplace where the dayLearns to live leaf by leaf,… Continue reading Richard Jackson
I have been here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turn’d so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.… Continue reading Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I’m still writing about you and you haven’t read a word. — Travis Grandt
Sleep was fitful at bestWakened early by their staccato cantingLike Knopfler’s guitar – equal parts mournful yet mysticA mise-en-scène for a morning catechism of tobacco and caffeineAnd thoughts of becoming Mexican, if only for the bird watchingThe sexuality of mangos, the labial likeness of gorditas,And sights of tanned señoritas in peasant dresses I’m wondering if… Continue reading John M. Medeiros
I wish I were not more than this, a written pulse, a hushed whisper of thought, braced against the great nothing. For what am I but an elaborate case for my consciousness? — jhlumyk, section I of “Sunday as it was”
You breathe in me a tenderness that is too heavy to hold. — VàZaki Nada
Don’t worry and don’t hurry and your days will be long. ― Deliaha Hicks
The first poetry is always written againstthe wind by sailors & farmers who sing with thewind in their teeth. The second poetry is written by scholarsand wine drinkers who have learned to know a goodthing. The third poetry is sometimes never writtenbut when it is, it’s by those who have broughtnature and art together into… Continue reading Walter Inglis Anderson
The Vale of Soul-Making 