Old lovers, old friends, had beginnings and ends,
But as my grip slips from the recollection, vines wind
Their way up a sleeping spine to twist into my sleeping mind,
Thorns hooked onto the memory, grown into a dream –
Becoming a dance with the familiar amongst the unseen.
I can’t touch the heart of the rain, it can only touch me
As it slips right through my fingers
Where a liquid hand can’t be held.
And the rain may have a beat but it’s too soft and quick
To be human and too rhythmic to be alive.
The rain never stutters or skips a beat
And I can dance in it but it can’t dance with me.
I can speak a soliloquy and pretend the rain is listening
But it can never confess a single secret back to me.
The rain may smell like a breath or a familiar comfort
But the rain is everything that has ever felt lonely.
Apparently you can either love Instapoetry, or hate it, with no in between. Today we discover which group I belong to in this little discussion about the rise of Instagram poetry, what it’s done to poetry as a genre, and whether it classifies as ‘real’ poetry. After all, what makes a poem, a poem?
I have a strong desire to document my life. Not necessarily my everyday experiences and errands or even special events, but just things that I see. Some people document other people, some their travels and adventures, but I like to document simplicities and complexities in the natural world around me. Sometimes photos act as bookmarks…