In the long, bleak winter of insomnia
when senses drift,
it is as if the spirit becomes solid
in the night's chill pit,
small and compact, gleaming
bitter alkaline in sullen brine,
fruit of an inclement season
that coheres about the stone
like the blind
remembrance of betrayal
that no words can frame,
keener,
more succinct than sadness,
less explicable than blame…
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This poem appears in the current issue of
Stylus Online Poetry Journal:
http://www.styluspoetryjournal.com
Olive
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107100200468
Свидетельство о публикации №107100200468
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Wonderful lines:
In the long, bleak winter of insomnia
when senses drift...
Frankly,
Valentin.
p.s.
Jena,
have you received my letter?
My e-mail: valentin@luchenko.com
Валео Лученко 02.10.2007 14:55 • Заявить о нарушении
In the long, bleak winter of insomnia
when senses drift...
Frankly,
Valentin.
p.s.
Jena,
have you received my letter?
My e-mail: valentin@luchenko.com
Валео Лученко 02.10.2007 14:55 • Заявить о нарушении
Thank you, Valentin! I am happy to report that I am sleeping better these days:)))
Jena Woodhouse 17.10.2007 08:12 Заявить о нарушении
Jena Woodhouse 17.10.2007 08:12 Заявить о нарушении