Skip to main content

scribe

Poet's Sleep, 1989, by Chang Houg Ahn 

my world, a stone
thrown from the tip of my soul
skimming mortal puddles

2014-Rene

Comments

  1. Beautiful words combined with an amazing painting!

    ReplyDelete
  2. ahhhh this is so perfectly written-

    ReplyDelete
  3. Ah yes, I struggled so with the stones, so poetry like indeed, as was that large light so brightly screaming.... but I went without them all, but this short and sweet stones throw, works wonders! Great magpie.

    ReplyDelete
  4. WOW! So few words, such impact! Loved it.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Yes! Your words pair perfectly with the image...but I do believe they stand excellently on their own as well.

    ReplyDelete
  6. And every stone makes ripples which spread in widening circles... :-)

    ReplyDelete
  7. When the stone came to rest it was a mountain which eventually became a continent ...cheers mate

    ReplyDelete
  8. Beautifully written ...'skimming mortal puddles' ..I like that.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Please drop a penny in a poet's hat :

Popular posts from this blog

bridesmaid

Image via Magpie Tales i won't be leaving here with you nor will you be staying with me for any longer than you see fit that is just the way of it it is the silent refrain of my being i won't be leaving here with you but i will stay, until my time is done as your ceremonial chosen one no, this won't be my last tour though it is the first time i won't be leaving here with you shh, now, darling. this is what i do i see it in your eyes, our time's drawing to a close. please don't mind  the tears  they come, they go, it's true... i won't be leaving here with you Rene ~ December 8, 2012

blue willow

i don't like eggs but you knew this already i know you're thinking such a terrible waste but it's not, you see i'm feeding them to the dog she loves them just as much as i know she loved you and the way you walked her as if every single thing she sniffed mattered to you as well sorry, dear pardon my red wine opera crowd violin string tugging (your words) i ramble at breakfast like a fussy percolator but you knew this already morning is when i am most honest and vulnerable i know that's why you left after dinner oh god dammit you i miss you so much what i did before us is a mystery and what i do now is insanity i'm frying up eggs just to smell them again and to perhaps coax you down, from wherever you are for breakfast did you know i believe that there is still a ghost of a chance Rene Foran ~  April 2011 photo by Tess Kincaid for Magpie Tales click for more info