ink on my fingers
bees on my brain
my friends are all missing;
they left on a train.
their backpacks are full
of granola and knives,
DIY zines about anarchist lives.
they blow me a kiss
as they turn and they flee...
i pick flower petals as i say,
"woe is me."
"gone."
poetry
Allynn Carpenter
January 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Small Farm
Some day
I will move
to a small farm
and one night
having cut the wood
for the evenings fire
I will sit on the porch
with Orions sword
pointing at my home
with a cup of tea
held close
to help keep my fingers
from losing their feeling
with my dogs
curled up at my feet
I will think of you
perhaps with a tear
perhaps with a smile
but I will think of you
and as I sit
watching the snow
begin to fall
with the small spots of white
drifting out of the thickening mist
I will realize
at some point
along the way
I've forgiven you.
Poem, Matt Hansen, December 2006
I will move
to a small farm
and one night
having cut the wood
for the evenings fire
I will sit on the porch
with Orions sword
pointing at my home
with a cup of tea
held close
to help keep my fingers
from losing their feeling
with my dogs
curled up at my feet
I will think of you
perhaps with a tear
perhaps with a smile
but I will think of you
and as I sit
watching the snow
begin to fall
with the small spots of white
drifting out of the thickening mist
I will realize
at some point
along the way
I've forgiven you.
Poem, Matt Hansen, December 2006
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
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