La Brea Tar Pits, California
My days are but loans
Of time that God owns
Till the scale of St Michael swings
I flew the high zones
Peered down on men’s thrones
But this eagle’s now folded his wings
My body bemoans
The sins it atones
Through pain that due penitence brings
Like a sackful of stones
My bagful of bones
Sinks into the tar of stilled things
Writer Lynne Sargent
Poetry Puttering by Pax & Company
Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte
"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
no dust here
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Looking ahead, without looking back (too often)
flights of fancy from New Zealand
You're never alone, if you've something to share
All you touch and all you see / is all your life will ever be
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I am where the valleys are deep, the mountains are high, and the wind moans through trees...
Poesy plus Polemics 
Not terribly uplifting, Paul, but the rhyming verse is a nice change of pace.
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I lapse into an occasional rhyme
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