I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
It is easy to lament the waning To bemoan the conquest of light by night We have made an art form of complaining Worrying spawns masochistic delight
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
Catch yourself reading Make that what you read; reflect What does reading mean?
Dionysus, twice-born and deathless drunk divine God of delirious intoxication Lord of the sodden and sweetly supine Your nation is imagination
Even the water wants to preserve this Reflection is its blind way of painting; The world can be a frightened, dumb abyss
Screens have two faces: One reveals a world to us The other conceals
Odysseus, you hick, you hot hayseed You brash bumpkin from rocky Ithaca! Athena to your every need paid heed; Your smile was my pain’s prolegomena
Was writing a dream? Or are you dreaming about Reading my writing?
Let the shouting sea summersault through you Absorb the polluted, peculiar profusion of the possible Percolate it into pellucid, purified poetry
Watching fall through a hospital window Having sought aid for your sensitive mind Which gleaned more from life's old book than most know
Mad clowns are great fun Provided that they never Escape the circus
I owe you a sincere apology For falling into this odd world too late To study language and psychology And understand your look, so desolate
Leaves disguised as flames Trees molting like antique birds Autumn wrote these words
