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.
Hype,Decoded.
-the near-unconsciousness of possible meanings -
POET CAFE - blog by Alex Markovich (42 y.o., Russia, author, artist, theater director)
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Artist
Information hygiene for the Covid-19 infodemic
Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar. Wayfarer, there is no way. You make a way as you go. (Antonio Machado)
all that inspires, shocks and makes me purr
Freyja Howls is a writer, performer and activist who would have been a style icon and comedian a century ago.
Dreams, thoughts, and experiences expressed through poetry and prose
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
Something feels like time is not yet done here. Something…like a hand, reaching out from a candle in the darkness…
exquisite.
Beautiful poem.