I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Why do those who sought Restored, in-person learning Fly away from it?
By D. J. Reddallabout a year ago in Poets
Autumn has blessed this ravishing trio Kissed their leaves with lips of crimson fire Turned their green chlorophyl to rich Barolo
Forget the future Who could possibly think that All is well right now?
Wasted upon the young is callow youth I should have known the kid would screw it up! The trouble was I tried to do in truth
Searing makes meat produce morbid music Aroma a gathering of grass ghosts Toothsome texture of tender pages torn Each bite reads like a salty short story
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
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?
