Cloud stories..

Τhe pen will never be able to move fast to write down every word discovered in the space of memory. Some things have been lost for ever, other things will perhaps be remembered again, and still other things have been lost and found and lost again.

Paul Auster
The Invention of Solitude

Untitled

do you think

the things that come

will be as dear as these

birds that dance until the sun

is hidden behind the trees

do you think the rain will be

as gentle as the sky

and carry us inside the earth

like songs that wandered by

do you think

the things that come

will be as strange as these

waves that laugh until the stars

are tucked beneath the beach

and do you think

the things that were

have rusted in memories

do you think the things that come

will be as great as these

Poem by Silence Speaks - 2016

Photo by me - 2017

What Kind of Times Are These

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted.



I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.



I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light-
ghost-ridden crosswords, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.



And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

by Andrienne Rich

from Collected Poems 1950-2012