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 |   "Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry. |
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P.(tree)Log ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it's now mid- 2019 and this is still the only book I use to house part of my new poetry. I began using it years ago due to a lack of storage space in my over-700 item WDC portfolio. I really need to do some spring, summer, fall and winter cleaning. There are still lots of static items which have never received any mention by other members here. But that's part of the problem of being a writer ( musician, artist, actor ... ). I do not know how to network. Thanks for discovering this link. Please leave a comment. Bookmark it, please.... This is a writing site and not FarceBrook where it's so easy just to press the button "LIKE." (( And I am not a fan of the fact that WDC has added it. )) |
| Not directly in the alba series. Almost its contrary ... so, love doesn't freeze well, its duvet ices over -- not that we can't walk in a hefty Canadian blizzard hand (glove) in hand (gloved) -- but love, honeyed and bouncy, tends to crack like the chocolate icing on a Magnum, consumed quickly, like tinder on a poorly stacked bonfire, marshmallows melting into a gooey slop like adolescent first kisses that still augment the sensation of heat [i.e. heartthrob (aching but to avoid attacks)] although later it will take much more to extinguish the passion, lust and Wunderbar flames that nurture love, and in (throughout, beyond) love, frozen or overcooked, two hearts never fully touch, their embrace is imaginary, fleeting, phantasmagorical, life-sustaining and every other word-paint poets invent to give sustenance to that which sustains the unsustainableness of life -- love -- and we pray (how we pray) that it sticks like the first snowfall before we squander it mushy and stomped upon and we give anything reasonable not to damn ourselves (the beloved?) when it turns up white-dulled and mulch-like in a post-office lost-and-found bin without a proper return-to-sender label legibly written and pre-stamped, yes love gets forgotten after e.e. cummings "the snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches" [2018.16.5…b] |
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