Posted in Poetry on March 30, 2007 | 2 Comments »
I feel the confinement
imposed by these walls
trapped by the whisperings
of fluorescent white halls
the meandering spirit
that thrives when set free
tends to balk when the clock
tells me who I must be.
Posted in Poetry on March 29, 2007 | No Comments »
The air is filled with old debris
What’s left of last year’s autumn spree
Brisk March winds work to cleanse the air
Odd remnants show up everywhere
 | Shirley on SURVIVAL |
 | Ali on SURVIVAL |
 | Dan on SURVIVAL |
 | Bob on SURVIVAL |
 | harry furness on Sticks and Stones |
