there were Christmases
birthdays
a gift here
a gift there
words exchanged
and some unspoken
pictures in an album
letters never sent
a shot of whiskey
here here
now
that lump
in the throat
called regret
there were Christmases
birthdays
a gift here
a gift there
words exchanged
and some unspoken
pictures in an album
letters never sent
a shot of whiskey
here here
now
that lump
in the throat
called regret
We're all on a road to somewhere.
My poetry is my religion.
poetry by Robert Ford
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Reblogged this on From 1 Blogger 2 Another.
Thank for reblogging this poem.
Oh how perfectly this says what it says. You are so gifted in speaking the quietest places in the human soul and mind. D
Thank you for those kind words, Douglas.
Beautiful
Thank you.
Beautiful, L, damn beautiful!
Thank you.
And such is grief . . .
this is very moving, it feels a bit sad, just as it should.
Thank you.