"Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper,
That we may record our emptiness."
Khalil Gibran

Thursday, June 29, 2017


© Karin Gustafson

Too many nights now, I have curled
into myself like a somnolent sea creature
with a thick, creamy shell –  an inward spiralling
that bears little resemblance to flight.

I have not sought out the stars
from my ocean bed, nor paid attention
to phases of the moon – a willingness to sink
into the confines of my own dark harbour.

But you will not consign me to the tide.
You sing me awake in lost hours, set me loose
from my anchor chains – a lifting free of self
to fly toward dawn on jet black wings.


Karin Gustafson  is hosting Flight of Write in The Imaginary Garden and has kindly shared her art to accompany our words.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Sonnet 38 ~ "I do not want to tell another man"

© Charles Schultz
Fair Use

I do not want to tell another man
I love him, only to see my words ground
to dust over time, while I can taste
them still, fresh as a kiss on my tongue.

To what avail? My belief in words
as a kind of cement has eroded –
every monument to man’s folly
will fall, given time and prevailing winds.

And this is the thing, no words
can warm my feet at night –
not even those I recall spoken
on warmer mornings than frosty June.

I know, hugging oneself to sleep is no substitute
but better than holding on to one who’s already gone.


Fashion Me Your Words To Fold is hosted by Gillena in The Imaginary Garden.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

The Swans

M.C. Escher (1956)

Let us skim the surface of reality
like a pair of swans
and call it poetry

Or instead of giving it away,
two waterbirds, with necks bent
like the delicate handles of white china jugs.

No ripples.
No plumbing of the doubtful depths beneath
for our several personal atrocities

Just this almost silent glide
and a swishing turn by the reeds, poise,
because the secret lies in contemplation rather than deed.

And don’t forget to admire the mirrored underside of clouds
like pulsing throats waiting to be slit open,
and for rain to fingertip the silvery skin

And call it poetry.


Today's challenge in the Imaginary Garden: Literary Excursions ~ Metafiction

Friday, June 9, 2017

Conversation with a Cab-Driver

There were many who went in huddled procession,
They knew not whither;
But, at any rate, success or calamity
Would attend all in equality.
Stephen Crane

The Chariot
Giorgio de Chirico
Fair Use

The charioteer climbed down
from his cab to contemplate his wheel,
stuck in a rut.
He carried a single passenger – the World –
who leant from his seat to offer wisdom:
“Those with their eyes fixed only
on a destination, fail to understand the journey.”
But the driver spat in the gutter
and cursed his Fate.
“I was not born to stand still.”


Words Count with Mama Zen

I drew a tarot card yesterday and today - The Chariot and The World - and, although both readings seemed exceedingly inept in my current circumstances, I could not resist a return to my Tales of Tarot.

Sunday, June 4, 2017


Image via Pinterest

The lights stay on all night
in the deserted hospital wing
despite the autumn leaves spilled
through unlatched windows
and the tubes, which dangle from
dead machines besides empty beds.
To wake in such a place
with no memory, no name
and no-one to answer the ringless bell…
is to know what awaits beyond the veil.


Flash 55 PLUS! : Ghost Town.

I am happy to report that my recent stay in hospital was not like this at all, but there were times when a lay awake deep in the night, when a sense of abandonment crept in.