The night is my companion poem writer.
Words seem to change their meanings after dark,
and wear the most fantastic night attire.
They wake me with a whispered shh or shat
and from them spin the beauteous of lines
which if I write down in my booklet then and there
bear no relationship to what they'll mean next day.
So night time has a language all its own,
that much is clear, the time has come
for me to differentiate the ones we write -
the night and I - for darkness, I alone for day.
It seems the night may harbour jealousy
when I make bold to offer up to day
what we have scribed together in the dark
and what is darker altogether than dawn's ray.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
I have been struggling again of late to keep up with my visiting and commenting etc. The latest inroads into the time available for the keyb...