Books, Memory, Photographs, Quotes, Time

Memory

Arboretum

“The places we have known do not belong only to the world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. They were a only a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years.”

From Swann’s Way

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Poetry from The Well

whether here or there

I followed you

then I hid you

 

kept my back near the outskirts

by all the ways out

 

Couldn’t stick to the speed

of your orbit

 

so here I go – floating off –

            planet alone –

farther away – I mourn –

            what it means to be inside –

your hive –

 

from here I hear

happy laughter gushing

like a waterfall

 

whether here or there

 

it remains to be seen

 

if I remain to be seen

Otaki 037

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Poetry from The Well

To Be Honest

To write in words what

your body’s been whipping down

for years takes

a spark

brighter than your

most shimmering thoughts

 

You can throw corn in a pan

and it’ll pop into something

new, crisp and sweet,

the tough shells gone

 

One day you may find

in the dry pages of

a book

a string of words

that hook

and tug out your

flailing

secret

– gasping in its last breath –

and after that nothing’ll

look the same anymore

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Poetry from The Well

Heart of Things II

Norman, aka The Tiny

Norman, aka The Tiny

I envy the rhythm of his days

that alternate between sun and shadow,

cool and warm, hungry and fed.

 

On Sundays he’s still with shining eyes,

no fear of the week ahead.

 

He believes he’s regal

as an orchid.

 

Do I drag through weekends,

eyes on the weeds, missing the

tree stretching for the sun,

roots reaching deep into

the heart of things?

 

https://ourwell.wordpress.com/2014/05/30/heart-of-things/

 

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Poetry from The Well

Home Is Where the Thought Is

Image

Where will our dream go

when we’ve moved into our dream home?

I’m safe and still in this thought of a house

on a hill, where chickens pepper grass

that needs mowing.

We’re inside, us two, writing words

and dreaming of our other worlds.

At night we’ll sleep and wander

farther still, or deeper.

Outside fireflies will flicker dimly,

mimicking the sky’s starry layers.

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