I knew an old man - a hunched eucalypt,
back bent away from grass-tearing storms
that my mother hid from in her youth.
He was private, would not speak of the past
sunk into wrinkled bark and knotted knees,
the arthritis of ages holding him still.
Nor did he raise voice, his benevolent limbs
were shelter from the crack of an open palm
and the cacophony of a kitchen in ruins.
He was the quiet times, the calm hours,
the sun-watched sleep when dusk was just an idea
and the air carried no bite nor chill.
I grew, forgetful, until a rambling sunday reacquainted us
and I remembered him - the kindly old eucalypt,
back bent to break the winds that threatened
the peace of a small child.














Comments
uh...i am not encouraging you to be absent though.
--
~silent studio~
~secret study~
--
Castro is alive? O.o
--
Man your battlestations, we'll have you dead pretty soon.
--
To twist one purest cause
Into an honest verse,
Itself, a call to angels.
The saddened lips of song that
Kiss away our innocence
From the vile mundane.
~justb
--
'cause there's beauty in the breakdown
That being said, I hope eventually to catch up with what has been happening with Project Rendezvous.
Your artwork continues to be breathtaking - I am quite fond of 'Cupid'.
Benedictions!
--
There is no escape from metre; there is only mastery.
- T.S. Eliot 'Reflections on Vers Libre' 1917 [link]
Benedictions!
--
There is no escape from metre; there is only mastery.
- T.S. Eliot 'Reflections on Vers Libre' 1917 [link]
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