That's looking westward, and there is no visible sun in the east. Scientifically, it's just a reflection, but metaphorically, it's gold.
September 3, 2013
"It's a good metaphor. Go write a poem on it. I haven't got time."
I said, on witnessing this sunrise, just now:
That's looking westward, and there is no visible sun in the east. Scientifically, it's just a reflection, but metaphorically, it's gold.
That's looking westward, and there is no visible sun in the east. Scientifically, it's just a reflection, but metaphorically, it's gold.
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“No one who is old is ever going to be young."
― John Beckstein, West of Eden
Sorry, no time to write a poem
A fractured quote is all I owe 'em.
Beautiful fall morning.
(sigh)
Have fun at school kids!
It's the first day of classes
I give out an assignment
My husband completes it
With brevity and refinement
May be not a sunrise.
Could be Dylan's Slow Train Coming
Better get out of the way!!
So in Madison the sun comes in the west? Explains a lot about where you live.
I wait for the day
though its far far away
when the sun comes up in the west
and the ladies love men in shorts the best
At the time of your posting
Blinding light
While I come to work, biking.
One hand shielding.
One hand braking...and steering.
False dawn
Fall dawns
While trees cling to green
Amber Days
Dying summer plays beneath
The morning pines that weep with amber
We won’t see. Boughs swing above
Their shadows and stand for us;
They harden into general metaphors
For life.
Sullen at noon, stolid at night,
That endless rustle of resistance
Among the needles and the boughs
Is owls and wind, or mice and wind,
Or morning pines and everything,
Or evening pines and nothing at all…
Where time molds and measures itself,
Under cover, safe with darkness,
Into hardening blebs and squibs.
These will make beautiful catacombs
For the webbed design of fly's wing,
Patterned gossamer lacing thorax –
These have been rendered immortal.
The veined and tinseled wings infuse
The moment with stained glass intricacy
Imprisoned, they blur with flight –
But is it a trick of the light, a second sun
Detonated in the unrequited West
That in turn sets off a mirage
Against the rising day of insular East
And become a dazzling artifact,
Another bead in nullity’s
Unceasing prayer? What burns through
The dying days of August, plays
Beneath the pines, and lets play out
The things that far-off heaven knows
Of amber? We only know the sun
Can double our preoccupations with hours
And see within its latent light
Twice removed from seasoned journeys,
The senescence of our days.
Sunrise in the west?
Missile strikes on Syria?
Fools believe their eyes.
The sun breaks through the morning mist.
Dappled by the leaves of yonder tree.
Marching to the end of my wooden deck.
I take a healthy pee.
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