Cold night in June, low cloud,
no moon, no poems written.
The trees wallow in the inkwash
of leaves. The beck runs black.
It's too real, this starlessness;
too alike to closing your eyes
and trying to remember.
Hell, out there you won't see
a damn thing. The dark doesn't care.
Old man meditates
by a dirty pond... so I
throw my frog at him!
Anonymous, Japan c. 1685
#haiku
My other cat—the one
who spends her days on the tinroof
of the garage & says nothing—
is dreaming of the United Nations
gathering to decide the best way
to help all the heartbroken humans.
A German stands to say:
“Let us, still inspired by Das Kapital,
share not just our wealth,
but our compassion.”
Child's shoe.
Concrete dust.
American accents.
mist
into
rising spirits
mountain
no forest voices
the morning's
jade moss
resiling footprint
's non-doing. There is
(After Wang Wei)
See how clouds make a view.
Played with a tunnel book again just on a whim because it’s nice just to play sometimes. ✨
You've always wondered what a back-room zero-gee space village bordello was like. Well, now you know.
Mark Richards
Mark Richards
John North
John North
John North
John North
John North
You Are Carrying
the dark settles
along with the cold drizzle
the blackbird's silence
