When the bat cracks on the ball-
on the inside of that sound,
if you stretched it out a thousand years,
you would hear the yearning sigh of a mountain.
My body is so rigid with desire,
with hopes, and sunshine, and wet on fresh cut grass-
The ball flies and the game runs its own pace,
and the mountain dreams and the clouds move along to the next sky.
Monday, April 2, 2018
THE USUAL (An abstract sound meets iambic pentameter work)
The Usual The stink. The plink and clink, so rinky-dink, Our winkless cries went down the kitch’n sink. Oh, strum und drang. D’you k...
-
A brief pause on writing about Henry to let you all know that.... I am so excited that I can finally announce this! Last summer I had a majo...
-
It's Saturday! And if you read my blog regularly, you know that, since the beginning of 2016, I have decreed Saturdays to be a day where...