Saturday, September 16, 2006


Not sure what this is, actually. In a half-sleep, whilst putting pencils to paper, I wrote a few things, rubbed a few things out, and repeated to fade. This is no way complete, perfect, or even that good, but you know, what is a blog without bad poetry?

There is no voice,
leave the branches untouched
says the ghost.
On the edge of an orchard waits the sprit.
Tongues, entangled ribbons of summer,
dance behind the fishermen a long way from their shore.
Nobody speaks anymore
This is not a mountain
say the farmers:
There are no descriptions for these stones,
say the farmers' wives.
This is not a path through the forest
there are no words remaining to accompany this walk.
There is no door into the stone house
and the clouds call the trees to the ground
and the voices of harvest draw silence through the town
and the language of the fields are lost
and the heart beat of the ghosts are shot