With thousands of tiny birds. I hear their feathers ruffle. At the edge of my consciousness. Are they made of blood? Such a deep red. They peck at the stretching shadows. Across the ceiling of my room. As car lights bleed past outside. They tap forlornly at the window. I wonder if they will ever escape. I blink as they cry and flee. Until they block up my.

Pesto Cheese Ball from Paula Deen. June 14, 2008 by autumnmoon. 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil. 3 ounces oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes. June 14, 2008 by autumnmoon.

There is always a deep desire within that draws us into sharing. At the corner of what could have been and what must be. On The Prayer of Barrabas. Frown upon which that can be seen,. For in it you may find nothing. The passing of things that are and have been,.

Sunday, March 08, 2015. Hannibal is at the gates. The city throws them wide open. Welcome, enter, ravage, pillage. To the victor goes the spoils. Thursday, March 05, 2015. It is the warm and the cold. Meeting, merging, separating. The meeting of your cold, my warmth. A building storm, a typhoon, a monsoon. Of our convictions, foundations. That my spirit longs to unravel in.

Out of the night that covers me,. Black as the pit from pole to pole,. I thank whatever gods may be. In the fell clutch of circumstance. I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance. My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears. Looms but the Horror of the shade,. And yet the menace of the years.

My type, feather light in quiet breath, drifts on a whim of fancy. nothing but a song half formed on a fingertip dream in a mad breeze promise. sent, like a road sighing somewhere beautiful and real. lying low, daylight hangs between us there is nothing but nice chit-chat and the memos that remember everything but this. Every door slam raised voice barrelled in a fist,. Every time you dragged me to the ground,. Kissed me on the up-curve of a crippled howling no.

Hoorah! I rock because I keep on trying when the world says no. It is a fairly fresh poem, so consider this an online workshop and tell me what you think. I was thirty-three before I learned. On my tongue for you, resist. The drinking down, drip it. Until my lips were raw.

Ashes, ashes, all fall down. And we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Eventually we crumble and become dust. Of the poetry on this site.

Casting a line or two in hope of a poem. Tuesday, January 30, 2018. My bundle of letters is. Where it is dark as night. Is a little reading light. My bundle of letters is. And it might as well be night. Monday, January 29, 2018. Cousined by hobos and tramps. Great grandfathered by gold miners. Saturday, January 27, 2018.