Sunday, April 12, 2015


Where I come from
trees don't sleep;
they don't burn
with all the ache of a sunset.

Where I come from
autumns are a grey shade of green;
they smell of mud
and the earth spilling its secrets.

Where I come from
the ground doesn't hide
in a blank shroud of silence;
it only glistens, leathery and dark,
like the first lines of a fairytale.

Where I come from
spring is dull,
only a brighter shade
of the everyday.

It doesn't breach the sky
with every shade of pink
and break the frost
with a vengeful thirst.

It simply stuffs the air
with the smell of orange blossom,
of youth, and the mocking promise
of a breeze…

(Originally posted on November 12, 2005)


katy said...

to be honest i've been so wrapped up in fiddling about with my link buttons and keeping up with the Critical Poet Forums that i haven't been reading your blog lately arch. sorry for that, really. and you posted the most lovely comment on morning child, that i decided it worth spending some time in your universe before heading off for a cosy night's sleep.

this piece has some different kind of dispare, some sort of worn out legend, a book burried deep beneath the earth for so long that the story has been completely forgotten until an innocent child might hap upon it. a brillaint grey.

thank you for sharing your work arch. and thank you for encouraging mine own.

Daniel Barkowitz said...

Great blog. And happy to have found you! I will be back to visit often (I hope)...

Your piece, "I write", is stirring...

Billy Jones said...

Guess what?

katy said...

arch, you made the list, congrats!