Friday, May 3, 2019

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real 
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures 
Are all I can feel
Remembering you standing quiet in the rain 
As I ran to your heart to be near 
And we kissed as the sky fell in
Holding you close 
How I always held close in your fear
Remembering you running soft through the night 
You were bigger and brighter and wider than snow
And screamed at the make-believe 
Screamed at the sky
And you finally found all your courage 
To let it all go
Remembering you fallen into my arms 
Crying for the death of your heart 
You were stone white
So delicate 
Lost in the cold 
You were always so lost in the dark
Remembering you

The Cure

Saturday, January 19, 2019


Thunder only happens
when it's raining -
she flips her long black hair

Debbie Calverley


I remember when we walked
through cities
like we owned them

Debbie Calverley

Thursday, January 17, 2019

RIP Mary Oliver your brilliant writing lives on

Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End? by Mary Oliver

Don’t call this world adorable, or useful, that’s not it. 
It’s frisky, and a theatre for more than fair winds. 
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn’t the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance? 

Haven’t the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe, 
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?

Don’t call this world an explanation, or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking 
outward, to the mountains so solidly there 
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the centre of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?

Mary Oliver