Yes, mountains remind me of Psyche, and Psyche of sorrow, and, sorrow of Beatrice.
from Psyche / by Beatrice Hawley
Now, the mountain is hushed.
The men steal away, eyes down. Night falls.
Psyche remembers her dolls, the pots she took
to play at house. This is where it leads.
poetry, publishing, and mentoring
A periodic, open discussion of particular poems
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from lined paper, to Royal, to Smith Corona, to floppy disk, to 1TB hard drive...it's all a result of the passing wind.
Writer & Visual Artist
Reading Around The World
A blog about books, writing and mental health
a journal of contemporary poetry
Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.
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"I am offering this poem to you, since I have nothing else to give." ~Jimmy Santiago Baca
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Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 