On my Deathbed
I told language:
Thanks for having my children
The language had names,
As did the children:
They were all words.
I dreamt of a door
The kind without windows
That always stands open.
I remembered some more
So I said the unspoken:
I gave them my want.
It declined.
A writer and her reading.
Daily free-verse poetry and other miscellaneous creative writing
Information Activism and library stuff
A celebration of writers who have achieved some measure of literary failure. Each week a short biography will be posted. After one year, they will all be deleted.
poems, photographs, prints
Poetry International is a world class literary magazine based on the campus of San Diego State University which caters to an international community of poets.
hedy bach original photography mixed stories and music
Essays on Creative Nonfiction
Idea Splotches from an (African) American Librarian
Studies in Occult Detective Literature
Something feels like time is not yet done here. Something…like a hand, reaching out from a candle in the darkness…
exquisite.
Beautiful poem.