What is important in my world is wonderment around
Time flies when all eternity is in a momentI look into your eyesAnd I want to remain lost in this pauseNothing exists outside of this precious event.But my mind overpowers meAnd brings
Look to the furthest starTo reach it, one must travelInfinite numbers of light years.Imagine the timeHow long it will take to reach thereThe excitement, the commitment and the wonder?And what sights
I felt as though I had crossed an interminable ocean,I looked back on my journey,A journey not yet understood.A journey that began with the emergence of my life into this
How can the need for you be described?How can the space between our hearts be measured?How can the unnoticed passage of time be understood when we are together?How can the
I picked up a mothThe wings were dusted with something.Without really knowing whyI handled it with an intense feeling of love.The moth had flown in my windowThe window that I had
RaindropsAn accidental clusterof fish eye lenses on the panedefying gravity.An entire universetrapped in each,distorted yet beautiful,miniature.Dozens, each uniquein shape, a tribe ofnomads.Temporary residentsvulnerable to sun and coldthey will
I know you are dead.Yet here you are as large as life.And smiling, how strange! I can’t remember you doingmuch of that, of late.My memories of you burn bright,
In the beginning, when the stars fell from the skyYou touched down gently next to me.At that instant in timeWe decided to always remember.We became preoccupied in the mysteries.The other
. . .Letter without letters Like dry rain Unfallen drops in Empty pools For my fictional feet not to splash in. . .
I am singular, particularThere is only one of meAnd yetWhen I travel through the cities of this worldAs I am privileged to doI am overwhelmed by knowingThat behind each doorIs a particular lifeA
I sit and wait to feel astonishment land in my hand like a bird
Is it a fact predestinate that always we should celebrate Death?
White was not so much a color, or, as some say, the absence of color, as it was a feeling under my fingertips when I touched the outside of our house. The white
The makeshift awning covering our bivouac site on the side of Gars-Bheinn flapped quietly as we twisted our bodies and sleeping bags this way and that over the stony ground where we had
I was asked to write about sadness, green sadness. Silence. . . My mind wanted to take a detour, to avoid at all costs this chasm in the road that the repairers had forgotten to
Children skipping in a playground – “She is handsome, she is pretty She’s the belle of Dublin city”The bell rings. It’s time to go back to class. The children sit at
I awoke at what I guessed was about an hour before dawn. I heard no shrill, drunken voices shouting good night or getting the last word in an argument that started before the pubs closed.
As she dives into the warm Mediterranean sea, the water splashes and glitters in the hot sun. Here with her sister, the two teenage girls are enjoying themselves. They are both in their
She cannot recall those awful moments of disorientation. Like all traumatic memories they are buried deep. Or put behind a solid wall where consciousness cannot penetrate.The rising panic.She can remember that.
There is a landscape that reoccurs in my dreams from time to time, that represents a place I yearn to visit. It used to be New Zealand, but now I have been there,
Of course this will have to be about my Dad, in response to the stimulus we read out. And of course I won’t do justice to the subject in just one hour.
A Chinese man is poling his sampan, yellow, across a green sea. A pagoda with a brown roof floating below classically drawn stereotypical Chinese mountains. Repeated again and again across the wallpaper of
The engine’s pulsing hums through the water, an underlying drone for staccato seagull shrieks, insufficient to shatter totally this place’s tranquility.
Rodin imprisoned this moment in cool, white marble that seems to breathe and pulse with life. blood flowing in unseen veins beneath the skin.