out here the rain and your book are my only companions, and the only thing that matters is the campfire and keeping the sparks (bright, living) from too-close legs where fabricated light cannot reach solitude is no longer secondary, but breathes with my breath, and pauses in the dark - intending everything, but only later … Continue reading for Shi Shi
How introverted poet/artists protest...
you are scarcely there - solid only on those spare nights when you sleep beside me by day you fall apart - like bread in water or the clods of dry earth I strike from the roots of weeds I have come to tell you there are no new prayers, that what it is that … Continue reading scarcely there
craving stars, I crept down the crouching hallway, disturbing only moths seeking their own small allowance of light trees sleep, lowering their limbs by fractions as the day subsides, leaving only the incremental gestures of slumber I have had to explain often the peculiar edicts of insomnia, and how it does no good to seek … Continue reading insomnia
A new little piece written for a friend's birthday. He's one of those rare people who lives whole-heartedly and finds something to appreciate in every moment. I hope you enjoy!
I lived once alongside the creek with its green tumblings and blue pools, where younger hands than these knew the language of the ridges in the bark of the oak that created a bridge of itself - a path to the tall grasses fanning the sky on the other side, where the small adventures of … Continue reading the creek
the gulls face the waves perched on their own reflections water reaches nothing is washed away except time from this day © Sarah Whiteley
you are mistaken, dear friend - it is not loneliness to be in such a space, where solitude might be relievedly embraced it is not lost when the venturing writes a trail to rediscovered peace © Sarah Whiteley
should they ask, I have gone to blue, I have gone to green stillnesses, to the bright-lipped lake where the reeds still recall that the wanting is often greater than ever the having, and that some days the rift is only the start of a different-directioned journey so should they ask, I have gone back, … Continue reading gone to blue
a grackle with eyes the color of pale topaz strolls across the tiles of the bungalow and I let him make his own conclusions about when to take his leave every morning, he comes to the stone basin where I rinse the sand from my feet to drink his fill while I have my coffee … Continue reading the magic of sand