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apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard: the stream

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2011/01/stream.html

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Sois toujours poète, même en prose. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. We ♥ it. Follow me into the night. Don't touch my moleskine. New haven stuckists films. Stuff no one told me. Tonight the sky is blushing I wonder who she loves. There are those among us who do not exist external. Extract from Pot Pourri. Tim Heron. Watermark template. Powered by Blogger.

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard: 09.10

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2010_09_01_archive.html

Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order. Je t'ai cherché au fond d'un verre. Tu n'y étais point. Je t'ai adressé mille prières. Et cette valse dans le jardin d'éther? Mais je te dédie ces quelques vers. Car moi, je ne t'oublie pas,. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Sois toujours poète, même en prose. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. We ♥ it. Follow me into the night. Don't touch my moleskine. New haven stuckists films. Stuff no one told me.

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard: Songful, Soulful, Sorrowful Ireland

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2011/03/songful-soulful-sorrowful-ireland.html

Songful, Soulful, Sorrowful Ireland. Some new pictures on my Flickr feed: http:/ www.flickr.com/photos/groovyshamrock. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Sois toujours poète, même en prose. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. We ♥ it. Follow me into the night. Don't touch my moleskine. New haven stuckists films. Stuff no one told me. Simple words are worthy signs Of inners worlds and. Morning. She gets up. The shutters paint Her face .

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard: 01.11

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html

Tonight the sky is blushing. I wonder who she loves. The sulking city below. Always blue, never boring. Or the maudlin mountains. Their purple peaks ever in the clouds. Perhaps the river and her silver circlets. Falling over her knolls and groves. Maybe she blushes from seeing you. Shine with a brighter light. The trees reach out for the silver blue. Pleading with the winter sun. Branches weak and scarred and stripped. Bleeding snow from their fingertips. Below a girl sings the blues. Photo by wendy bevan.

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard: 07.10

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2010_07_01_archive.html

It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it. Hi folks, I probably won't be posting as much as I have been in the past few months. I'm busy catching up with reading, with old friends, with life, and always downing a last glass of red wine (och, well, maybe I'll have another one after that). But stick around, have a seat, and I'll be back soon. Lost in the woods. Et la ville est vide. Derrière les rideaux rouges. A quoi bon parcourir. We ♥ it.

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2011/05/with-only-month-of-lessons-to-go.html

With only a month of lessons to go, the academic year is drawing to an end. You can smell the promise of summer in the air. It’s the season of skirts and sunburns, late night laughter and Martinis on the terraces. You can’t escape it. Yet time seems to have come to a standstill. I’m stuck in the stifling concrete heat when all I want is to take the first train out of town and go gambol in the grass. Sometimes the more you walk, the further the destination seems to be. Or is it just me? We ♥ it.

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard: 11.10

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html

Interlude poétique #2 - Día de los Muertos. Because I could not stop for Death –. He kindly stopped for me –. The Carriage held but just Ourselves –. We slowly drove – He knew no haste. And I had put away. My labor and my leisure too,. For His Civility –. We passed the School, where Children strove. At Recess – in the Ring –. We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –. We passed the Setting Sun –. Or rather – He passed us –. The Dews drew quivering and chill –. For only Gossamer, my Gown –. We ♥ it.

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard: 06.10

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2010_06_01_archive.html

Cathy was beautiful like Brigitte Bardot. Cathy always was there, but outside … Then, some years ago, she put a shotgun in her mouth and blew her head off. NB Photo by Bruce Davidson. Two "inspiration" posts in a row? Life is a bit hectic at the moment. But when things calm down, I'll try to start posting my own stuff again, I promise. The Tallest Man On Earth - A Field Of Birds. From Yellow Bird Project. It's also the theme song of the Yellow Bird Project. Be indie with a conscience! Toi et moi, nous,.

apostmodernbard.blogspot.com

a postmodern bard

http://apostmodernbard.blogspot.com/2011/01/tonight-sky-is-blushing-i-wonder-who.html

Tonight the sky is blushing. I wonder who she loves. The sulking city below. Always blue, never boring. Or the maudlin mountains. Their purple peaks ever in the clouds. Perhaps the river and her silver circlets. Falling over her knolls and groves. Maybe she blushes from seeing you. Shine with a brighter light. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Sois toujours poète, même en prose. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. We ♥ it. Follow me into the night.