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Hace 3 días · By S. J. Fowler. Silent Spread. S.J. Fowler. Audio recordings of classic and contemporary poems read by poets and actors, delivered every day. Subscribe. More Episodes from Audio Poem of the Day. Showing 1 to 20 of 5,084 Podcasts. Sunday, May 26, 2024.
- Resilience
More Episodes from Audio Poem of the Day. Showing 1 to 20 of...
- Resilience
Hace 4 días · THEY WERE SO YOUNG. Memorial Day and the old folks come. And stand in the sun feeling sad and dumb. The boys in the ground—there are so many, They’re eighteen, nineteen, maybe twenty—. They just moved out of a boy’s bedroom. And went to war, now they lie in a tomb.
Hace 5 días · It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.”. ― Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid. tags: death.
Hace 5 días · Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
Hace 5 días · If I remember correctly, I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18, then forgot about it for 15 years until I met my future wife Beth and she reminded me of the poem’s mysterious enchantress.
Hace 5 días · Easy is right. Begin right. And you are easy. Continue easy and you are right. The right way to go easy. Is to forget the right way. And forget that the going is easy. by Thomas Merton. A perhaps slightly abstract poem that came to mind as I was preparing for an exploration of mindfulness and creativity, speaking about that often quite elusive ...
Hace 5 días · The passion that flows within my veins give a voice to my soul when the pen vomits words on the paper, like a drunk the morning after a night on the town, trying to drown the memory of her. I'm bent on writing because the world's dim lighting cast shadows on everything that mattered to me. I'm shattered you see by circumstances beyond my control.
