Memorize this life word by word
in two tongues—
One, our everyday speech
of lost socks in laundry,
sardines and daisies, fireworks, grocery lists.
The other language, Sanskrit,
mysterious as a distant island
uncharted but rumored, reachable
far out in the middle of the sea
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
