Description

::imaginative introspection::

Imagine that all life is an illusion. All that exists is this moment. No past, no future, each memory, every plan, a part of the illusion. Life, in a photograph.

Do you like the image of yourself?

Monday, May 30, 2011

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Things I'm Reading

Matt @ Shadow of Iris writes
yesterday’s tomorrow isn’t today, a poem
An old dusty book
with yellowed pages
and crusty corners
opened to the middle
where curious eyes spy . . . .




Francis @ Caught In the Stream writes
We fall away from the forest

The man, somewhat less than 

environmentally leaning,
falls down, making a definite
sound in protest.  . . . .




Alcoholic Poet @ Sad Poems writes
chase. devour. decide. 
on the limits of deception is where the freedom lies.  . . .




Wine With Words @ Quiet Commotion writes

Feeling

Emotions line the block in colorful lawn chairs
anticipation rising in incremental volume
for this psychological thriller is opening right this very moment!. . . .



Sunday, May 22, 2011

Poetry I Love: Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken"


Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken"
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
and looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim
because it was grassy and wanted wear;
though as for that, the passing there
had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
in leaves no feet had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less travelled by,
and that has made all the difference


Tuesday, May 17, 2011

[TIME] from the never ending days

[TIME]
            slows
to a soft
       drip
like tipped

                                      m
                                        o
                                           l
                                            a
                                              s
                                                s
                                                 e
                                                   s

viscus
and
clinging

resistant to
any efforts at
speeding
up
time

Defeated,
Instead, now
I beat my head
against a wall
biding --
             Each jolt of pain a reminder              that ....

I'm still alive.

(still)
        (somehow)

Friday, May 13, 2011

(watch in wonder as the world rumbles)

Today finds me dreaming of summer nights and stargazing.


Petrichor: the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a dry spell.
[From petro- (rock), from Greek petros (stone) + ichor (the fluid that is supposed to flow in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology). Coined by researchers I.J. Bear and R.G. Thomas.]

"Petrichor, the name for the smell of rain on dry ground, is from oils given off by vegetation, absorbed onto neighboring surfaces, and released into the air after a first rain." Matthew Bettelheim; Nature's Laboratory; Shasta Parent (Mt Shasta, California); Jan 2002.

"But, even in the other pieces, her prose breaks into passages of lyrical beauty that come as a sorely needed revivifying petrichor amid the pitiless glare of callousness and cruelty." Pradip Bhattacharya; Forest Interludes; Indianest.com; Jul 29, 2001.  



Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Deflection

He jokes about the struggle,
his self deprecating humor a transparent veil, 
attempting to cover the hurt behind the memory.  





Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Choice.

Love only hurts if you let it.  

I won't. 

Watch me walk away.  

I'm not sorry to leave you, and your venom, behind.  

Watch me walk away.  
I won't look back.
I won't give in.
I won't allow my world to dim. 
I won't waste my tears. 
I won't spend my years
rationalizing actions caused your fears.

I gave you my heart
and you threw it away
I'm picking it up,
and leaving today.