This is a page from an old
sketch journal.
Lots of poems
start from a journal entry
Here’s the first poem
from Late Bloomer:
Some of these words I write are not mine.
They have come from a thousand poets before.
I have only inherited human frailty
and left room for Divine order.
Some of these melodies I compose are not mine.
They have swept through the hearts
of a thousand musicians before.
They too, were lost like me
and somehow found
their way through
art and music and poetry.
My soul has roots down
to the beginning of time
back to that lonely flute player
on the banks
of an ancient river.
~~~
SCROLL down for more blog posts
