Waves a poem by Paul Hooker WavesThe past is the present experienced as longing.—Rubem Alves, The Poet, the Warrior, the Prophet.At night the old man comes back to the wavesswelling, sparkling in the moonlight,failing, falling back to swell again.They never... Continue Reading →
Ghosts a poem by Paul Hooker GhostsBy blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves. —Diana Gabaldon, Drums of Autumn. You are not alone here.The mirror cracks and shattersIn myriad tinkling falling sliversThat whisper like a Judas... Continue Reading →
Green …the leaping greenly spirits of trees… e.e. cummings Green is the truest color. It does not lift its eyes too high. It does not hate like red, nor rage with orange nor put on purple’s kingly pretense, nor like... Continue Reading →
When It Isn’t There It’s what the bees are busy with, hive-deep, where no light reaches and the constant drone of action serves to make the sweetness those whose labor makes it never taste. It’s what the land that flows... Continue Reading →
Poetry Breakfast 