Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Traces (7)

Blockhead Existentialism

The tree was always there when
You needed it

Until you became a stump.



The poem
Wants nothing

From you
But to meet it

On its own



Waiting for a Bite

Whenever I throw out a line,
I always hope

Something will be left when
The poem decides

To reel me in.


Concentration Means Resolution

Let the first thing
That enters your mind

Stay there.


True North

So easy to be misled
By aimless wandering,

But then again, no one
Ever found himself by

Using a compass.

NB: A note on Traces: Time to leave, hopefully not without having left a trace.


  1. Not just traces : a wake.

    Thanks for the poems- faint lines traced upon a page can shatter stone and shiver glass, every echo has its ear to find.

  2. Glad these traces made a "wake" and thanks for telling me so.


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