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Poem – What is Meant to Be
The day’s chaos subsides as the wind carries my worries away and the trees wrap their limbs around me, I close my eyes and the mountains appear. The day’s battle and the outcome set I relinquish the inner turmoil to the stars as I cross tundra and rivers setting up camp at the foot of…
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If Jackson Pollock was a photographer, #5
I imagine one of his photos would look like this:
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Poem – Beyond What We Think We See
The lonely path tunneled through the daily routine and expectations. The tunnel was your gateway and hiding place, a retreat when life became too real, a distraction. Did ever see the colors of the sunset as they appeared over the black waters in the city? I imagine you looking at nothing in particular on the…
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Poem – A Plea
In the sea my reflection is carried away by smoke and mist. I stood there with what was left. Broken, motionless stripped of my armor, I pleaded to whatever gods lived here in the golden light and calm sea – What more must I give? I have given blood. I have given sanity. My mind…
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Poem – Finding Home in the Chaos – Part 4
These simple moments of nature’s gentle cycle coupled with the raw energy exhibited here and beyond humble this man juggling chaos looking for simplicity looking for answers to questions I have not asked.
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Poem – Finding Home in the Chaos – Part 3
Sometimes when I see the midnight moon over the superior waters I imagine, if I reach for enough from the shoreline I can catch the beams in my palm. The iced shoreline captures and holds the moon just long enough for me to taste the ancient light and remember my roots far beyond any physical…
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Poem – Finding Home in the Chaos – Part 2
We hike for hours, having left the flat fields, the trail twists and turns toward a peak overlooking a wide valley filled with trees past their peak. The valley empties into a lake filling horizon with what is discarded, what is no longer useful here, to be dispersed out to sea into the cosmos. Darkness…
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Poem – Finding Home in the Chaos – Part 1
Winter rain slowly melts the little snow recently fallen. Sidewalks and streets are wet the trails are becoming mud. The puppies stare out the sliding glass door across the greening yard, at the pond turning from ice to water.
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If Jackson Pollock was a photographer, #4
I imagine one of his photos would look like this:
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If Jackson Pollock was a photographer, #3
I imagine one of his photos would look like this: