out the left fore-
the right intent, in
on some obscure
into new territory.
Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches
and color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy
formerly, today I notice them
and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the distance, he saw
trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
they were delicious
and so cold
who knows if the moon’s
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky–filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where
in love and flowers pick themselves
here’s to opening and upward,to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here’s to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning’s beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and
let must or if be damned with whomever’s afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here’s to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
–the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Know the lived
Photos are NOT mine. Credits goes to their respective owners.If I didn't credit the photo SORRY, that means I couldn't find the owner...❤ My life is my choice! I'm going to live how I want. Good vibes only.
Crafting, Cooking & Journalling through Life
la condivisione del dolore è un dono di amore da parte di chi lo fa e di chi lo riceve
A picture tells a thousand stories!
Here, Now and Somewhere else
Lucania la mia ragione di vita
Deal with the faults of others as gently as your own.
....But if you stay in my lane long enough, you'll experience my emotions...
Welcome to my world
Gesundheit - Rezepte - Reisen
Blog de literatura e artes
Urban art and culture
We're all on a road to somewhere.
My poetry is my religion.
poetry by Robert Ford