Ni raibh am agam scriobh go dti seo.

hoyisabel:

by John Frederick Nims

My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You…

(Source: poemhunter.com)

accidentalvter:

In honor of your death, my friend Kathleen,
I go to the piano, play half the four-hand Mozart
we worked at for so many years.
The bass is sadder now, because the tune
slid over and off the top of the keyboard
and disappeared in the winter air,
leaving this row of forty ivory slabs
interrupted by black wedges of wood
silent and still as a sculpture garden
closed now for the season. But listen—
the ghost tune still sounds deep
in the caverns of the ear, the ghost hands
still searching for the right fingering.
We’ll get it right yet, Kathleen,
but only you and I will ever know or hear.

thecynicsyndrome:

You are so small and slight in the rain. A small target
for the raindrops, for the dust in summer,
and for bomb fragments too. Your belly is slack,
not like the tight flat skin of a drum: the flabiness
of the third generation. Your grandfather, the pioneer,
drained the swamps. Now the swamps have…

(Source: wrongnumbers)