Winter is already a lost shape, forgottenin the ground. Instead, here is Springwith all the grace of a womansmoothing out her apron.
People say the beach is the great equaliserWho are they kidding?Sit at Bondi and watch the boys flexAnd the girls walk bolt uprightIt looks like a nightmare episode of Baywatch.The true equaliser is the mountain coldAnd stacks of cold flung togetherMaybe then we__ listen to what each other is sayingInstead of checking out the best bods.And as I wrap another layerAround my Size 10I think of Jack__ favourite saying:__oday__ tan is tomorrow__ cancer__ walk outsideAnd whistle at the wind.
Kissing Annabel: Love, Ghosts, and Facial Hair; A Place Like This
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People say the beach is the great equaliserWho are they kidding?Sit at Bondi and watch the boys flexAnd the girls walk bolt uprightIt looks like a nightmare episode of Baywatch.The true equaliser is the mountain coldAnd stacks of cold flung togetherMaybe then we__ listen to what each other is sayingInstead of checking out the best bods.And as I wrap another layerAround my Size 10I think of Jack__ favourite saying:__oday__ tan is tomorrow__ cancer__ walk outsideAnd whistle at the wind.
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Our great adventure ran out of petrol and stopped on this farm.
Always choose the adventure ... unless, it's chilly outside and there's a cup of warm coffee resting near a book and comfy sofa.
The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.
This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.
Ree Dolly stood at the break of day on her cold front steps and smelled coming flurries and saw meat. Meat hung from trees across the creek. Carcasses hung pale of flesh with fatty gleam from low limbs of saplings in the side yards. Three halt haggard houses formed a kneeling rank on the far creekside and each had two or more skinned torsos dangling by rope from sagged limbs, venison left to the weather for two nights and three days so the early blossoming of decay might round the flavor, sweeten that meat to the bone.