Undone

Dense clouds settling downsurround me;
this
echoing ghostlike winter's rolling sea.
Hug my morning with yourambivalence.
Lay down naked onmy spirit, like a loverlost to fading memoryand the worshipwithin her paleblue eyes.
Oh my sweet,brother sun,loyally seek me, lost within this comfort of lies.
Burn this foggy morning head away into an afternoon well done.
What I don't know would fill the landscapeas a kindling fire.
and . . .
AllI need to fearin this life . . .is what I know,sometimes my heart's desire,
and all I leave undone.
Published on April 25, 2011 07:53
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From a Krabbe Desk
A thought, now and then, this "blog," and it is more a matter of filtering than writing. It is that scavenging through the thoughts to find one or two that transcend from an inner reality to a deciphe
A thought, now and then, this "blog," and it is more a matter of filtering than writing. It is that scavenging through the thoughts to find one or two that transcend from an inner reality to a decipherable external one, takes a special kind of energy. An energy I am some days out of.
Writing, for me, is always just that. At the outset of each day, I spend a certain amount of time firing up the head, and sorting through what comes. In this process I have kept journal pages since I was seven years old. Hundreds of thousands of pages, and most of them, written before the word blog was anything more than a misspelling. So here I will do my meandering and here I will keep my journal from this day forward (until I stop). ...more
Writing, for me, is always just that. At the outset of each day, I spend a certain amount of time firing up the head, and sorting through what comes. In this process I have kept journal pages since I was seven years old. Hundreds of thousands of pages, and most of them, written before the word blog was anything more than a misspelling. So here I will do my meandering and here I will keep my journal from this day forward (until I stop). ...more
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