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Time and Windows
This poem is a reverie and contemplation of my mother.
Time and Windows
If the past is a tattered old book,
then why am I a ghost
at my mother's window,
so clear I can sense her mystery,
and her brown eyes, so alive?
Look, I can fly to her
through the high windows
of my memory
until I'm so close that she disappears,
and the curtain flutters silently.
A...
Friday 29th December 2017 10:44 am
A Book of Hours
This poem came to me after a visit to London, where I was thunderstruck by the scale and beauty of the restored Reading Room at the British Museum. I was also wrestling with Existentialism at the time.
A Book of Hours
There was Time when its Arrow
flowed like a ticking clock
as it carved the future from the past
like a blind sculptor in one dimension
...
Saturday 14th January 2017 12:32 pm
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