Happy is England! I could be content To see no other pitches than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown By her tall seamers with guileless bowling bent: Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For wickets ‘Strine, and with inward groan Hunger for fields and Foes
Easter Saturday is a grey ocean of sorrow, and a man in a little boat. Peter escaping A World paused and become inscrutable. No word in the wind and waves, still still. A spirit hovering over the waters. No form to a void the questioning. And the answers. From today,
A poem on being asked to dinner with friends maunderingly entitled: A Paean of Joy somewhat perplexed by Questions in the Form Of An Improperly Constructed Sonnet by your faithful servant Daniel Anderson Tomorrow night sounds quite alright! what shall we bring? Yes! Anything! a little bite? a tasty mite?
I can't hear myself. Clouds crowd the top of the buildings. Red hair a flare down the grey street. Beats, too many beaten, asyncopation. Your Journey Begins Here, Go! around, around the block, It ends. Clouds shroud the New Jerusalem
A silence of praise is yours, Sounds unsounding ring out. In broken language and crippled moves, We complete our vow. Every word is yours, and still words fail Every move is yours Let us give praise! To you, all flesh is turned, Into your ear, our hearts and hurts are