This Sometime Poet

thissometimepoet:

Rose



It’s a torture
when I see her and her dog
walking toward
my dog and I
that I cannot remember her name
though she only told me once
and I often need
a few times for such things
to stick

but if God himself
appeared before me now
in a wool cap
jeans and sandals
demanding I say her name aloud
for all of creation to hear

I would burn for eternity
over my lapse of attention
the sweat streaming down my face
as I manage to stammer before I go
that if it matters or helps
her dog’s name is Rose.

msobscura:

(via largerloves)

dreamsinthyme:

stilesgame:

It bugs me when people are unnecessarily mean. Like, you didn’t have to make that comment. You could have just kept your mouth shut and left that person not feeling bad about themselves. What do you gain from making someone else feel like shit? Nothing of substance. Maybe a fleeting moment of power but that’s gone as soon as it comes so why? There’s enough unhappiness in the world without you adding to it.

(via ramblinguitar)

pika-memes:

(via redcloud)

glitterkittythefabulous:

Terry Pratchett, The Truth

princesafemme:

i mean this completely seriously but… a cup of coffee can save your life a little, a shower can save your life a little, making your favorite meal can save your life a little…….little things actually add up to really big things in the long run if you let them, the secret to surviving everyday is infusing a little bit of magic into the mundane i truly believe that

Yes…

(via gramarobin)

thissometimepoet:

The Old Swing Out Back



Late last night
She visited me again
Touching my chains
Pushing my seat softly
In the dark air

Once again
She did not bring
Her daughter.

terracemuse:

mercurial-cereal:

dogdayafternoon1975:

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i think about this all the time

Fran Lebowitz

thissometimepoet:

The Cats of Summer




They prowl the neighborhood
around the clock: black ones,
cream ones, a fluffy gray and
white one who stands apart
from the sleek short-haired
regulars. In the morning they
lounge on porches washing
their faces in anticipation
of a free meal; at night
they are shadows among
the parked cars and shrubs.

Trying to sleep with the windows open
I hear their love songs and disputes
though sometimes it is hard to tell
which are which. And sometimes
I want to join in, crying on my windowsill
like any other lonely male whose heart
and soul roam past the dark houses
on padded feet
as promiseless as
a breeze.

lifemaniac91:

(via gillianleeeza)

bellybuttonblue2:

(via gillianleeeza)

soberscientistlife:

What a beautiful message

chucklingpecan:

This is our world now
Let’s create fresh selves
out of nothing we’ve been
and blossom fiercely
in this grand garden