On my skin,The glimmer of a candle flameBrings up Savannah.The colors of scrub landSoftly abandonedBy a setting sun. The light changesThe fine lines of timeInto
Catégorie : Poésies, formes libres
A Teacher’s Field
On the teacher’s blackboard, nothing is impossible,In front of gaping eyes, I’m writing the word ‘writing’,I’m wiping the word ‘wiping’…I’m wiping the word ‘writing’, writing
Repriser son Âme
Comme une fleur pourritComme une fleur pourrieJe vais mourir et je suis mort. Comme l’obscurité nuitComme l’obscurité-nuitMa vie se meurtLa mort me vit Comme l’obscurité
Meet the Journalist
Still digging out old posts….from earlier sitting sessions, back in 2016. I recently bumped into someone I had never met before.Someone I know more than
Dense as This. Simple as That
A trail of thoughtsOn which I walkThousands of milesOf pure brain-madeFabric-ationWoven mind-terialBehind and around usEven becoming usCovering the whole worldAnd everybody elseA trail of thoughtsWe
The Art of Sitting
Again, this is an old post I dug out and dusted out while preparing the next book… It is not because we communicate on a
