Tennis players sip mugs of hot tea
between points while spectators huddle in
parkas and mittens on the sidelines
complaining about the weather when we
should be writing psalms of gratitude
In praise of these lives so sweet
where this unseasonable cold
so tangible and unimportant
is the biggest worry we can conjure.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
