Back to more serious stuff today -- well, it is Sunday.
The following is a poem written by my man, Alex, in July 1973. I love it and hope you do!
Bedraggled face wet with confusion, fear,
hangs like a hooked fish among fishermen
limp. All others moving from a to b
and him between, somewhere between the two.
Someone lands him, reels him into their eyes
with gentle words, assurance; a warm voice
knowing the area, leads him, small hand
by larger one, back to familiar sounds,
known aromas and silhouettes that he
is unafaid to embrace. The frank womb
where he may unravel his torn stomach.
Safe now, child, caught in childhood's governed net.
But in the bigger sea, the open world,
often-- no warm voice nor old face to kiss.
Nothing I can add to this today, I find it both painful and joyous sifting through the mountain of work that Alex left. Perhaps I need someone to advise me on ' copyright'! Have a good day everybody, enjoy your partner!
How to Outsmart Writer’s Block with Neuroscience
19 hours ago