Wednesday, April 2, 2025

Why

Why do I write poetry? 

to see my life! Themes, mysteries, 

patterns, questions. A place for 

clues to appear in the spaces 

between thought and word. 

Sometimes it’s just the 

hard lumps of words; irritable

and determined to be seen.

Still, the holiness of 

between 

is one place where I hear 

the universe sing out. 

at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Thoughts

  In my work as a psychotherapist, I am fascinated by how often a persons’ stories interact with their natural landscape. How much of their ...

  • Yellow
     The leaves on the big backyard Oak have the first tinge of yellow and boom. My brain, friend and foe, presents a memory, me talking the two...
  • Rust
    The rust pours out my fingers smearing orange, in cranky stripes across the page. Religiously trying to write, as the books say, wheneve...
  • (no title)
     I read somewhere that Benjamin Franklin took moon baths. He would sit naked in front of an open window on a moonlit night; bathing in the m...