The sacred rose and the guns of love

A rose for Maud…
View larger image at 5280 Lens Mafia…
William and Maud
I am haunted by numberless islands… – WB Yeats
Walking by the shore at dusk,
air leaden with a faith in words. Read more
A rose for Maud…
View larger image at 5280 Lens Mafia…
I am haunted by numberless islands… – WB Yeats
Walking by the shore at dusk,
air leaden with a faith in words. Read more
“I’m interested in what motivates you, and how you understand the world.” He glanced sideways at her. “Rausch tells me you’ve written about music.”
“Sixties garage bands. I started writing about them when I was still in the Curfew.””Were they an inspiration?”
She was watching a fourteen-inch display on the Maybach’s dash, the red cursor that was the car proceeding along the green line that was Sunset. She looked up at him. “Not in any linear way, musically. They were my favorite bands. Are,” she corrected herself.
He nodded.
I’ve always been intrigued by the curious dynamic of influence. Read more
I’m not a political poet. Not for the most part, anyway. I certainly never wanted to be one, and I had been writing for a number of years before this finally happened:
I don’t want to say too much for fear of being misconstrued
or maybe
for fear of being understood all too clearlyso here’s your warning –
flowers sometimes bloom quite literally,
unfurling in the dewfall to kiss
mother sky good morrow.And sometimes wolves change their sheep
clothes for pinstripes.