photo by Chris Kean
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Poem by Rob Badger
Human Fields
A mountain lies in the west constantly dreaming. Forever sleeping as its different body parts move and sway with the winds. Although trapped in sleep the mountain can escape in many ways. Plants and trees shed part of themselves eventually dealing out new life in old places. Butterflies leave the vast expanse of mountain skin just to touch down again, changing its pigment once more. For each moving, breathing thing there is something that comes to a standstill, something that no longer needs air. Each being has a certain time of wakefulness until eternal sleep. We must do this in shifts because we believe the power struggle now is bad, but we are one species. I can only imagine…
Eventually after our shift of sleep is over we may be roused again. The mountain sleeps on waiting for the day he can again walk through sleeping human fields, and admire again all the different colors, shapes, and sizes.
A mountain lies in the west constantly dreaming. Forever sleeping as its different body parts move and sway with the winds. Although trapped in sleep the mountain can escape in many ways. Plants and trees shed part of themselves eventually dealing out new life in old places. Butterflies leave the vast expanse of mountain skin just to touch down again, changing its pigment once more. For each moving, breathing thing there is something that comes to a standstill, something that no longer needs air. Each being has a certain time of wakefulness until eternal sleep. We must do this in shifts because we believe the power struggle now is bad, but we are one species. I can only imagine…
Eventually after our shift of sleep is over we may be roused again. The mountain sleeps on waiting for the day he can again walk through sleeping human fields, and admire again all the different colors, shapes, and sizes.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Poem by Zaid El-Fanek
Words
There’s an invisible thread
that binds me through -
an idea,
or maybe a word,
or two.
I have these ideas
and thoughts that form.
These words that wander
and frolic about -
inside my mind
these words are helpless.
But the invisible thread
will do its work
and bring them together
one by one.
I write them down now
as I think.
They come together,
and make
this poem.
There’s an invisible thread
that binds me through -
an idea,
or maybe a word,
or two.
I have these ideas
and thoughts that form.
These words that wander
and frolic about -
inside my mind
these words are helpless.
But the invisible thread
will do its work
and bring them together
one by one.
I write them down now
as I think.
They come together,
and make
this poem.
Monday, November 2, 2009
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