I like the early years—
the pinch and scrape and work.
The argue years. The limited success,
the messes on mess.
I care much less for that guy, a wild man—
a person who loved himself
a bit too much.
Mornings snapped like clean sheets. I rested
my head against your warm breasts—
last stars in an earthy sky.
All of my small gestures
are now stills.
Welcome to The Tangled Branch! Join us.
From my Autobiography ~ 1996
- Tracy Mitchell
- Posts: 3473
- Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 3:58 pm
Re: From my Autobiography ~ 1996
Very nice picture, Tim. Time goes backwards for a bit. The reflections ring true.
T
T
Re: From my Autobiography ~ 1996
Like it Tim.Tim J Brennan wrote: ↑Sat Sep 08, 2018 8:18 amI like the early years—
the pinch and scrape and work.
The argue years. The limited success,
the messes on mess.
I care much less for that guy, a wild man—
a person who loved himself
a bit too much.
Mornings snapped like clean sheets. I rested
my head against your warm breasts—
last stars in an earthy sky.
All of my small gestures
are now stills.
Keep reading (and prefer) it as 'the messes en masse'.
'Morning snapped' line is excellent, and the final line too; all your gestures either elevate or hold you precarious...I suppose they could both.
Re: From my Autobiography ~ 1996
All of my small gestures
are now stills.
Like this ending - the way the insignificant becomes more profound with the passage of time. Good piece of writing all round.
are now stills.
Like this ending - the way the insignificant becomes more profound with the passage of time. Good piece of writing all round.
Re: From my Autobiography ~ 1996
Tracy Mitchell wrote: ↑Sat Sep 08, 2018 8:24 amVery nice picture, Tim. Time goes backwards for a bit. The reflections ring true.
T
Thank you, Tracy. Enjoy autumn. It's here.
Re: From my Autobiography ~ 1996
Colm Roe wrote: ↑Sat Sep 08, 2018 7:28 pmLike it Tim.Tim J Brennan wrote: ↑Sat Sep 08, 2018 8:18 amI like the early years—
the pinch and scrape and work.
The argue years. The limited success,
the messes on mess.
I care much less for that guy, a wild man—
a person who loved himself
a bit too much.
Mornings snapped like clean sheets. I rested
my head against your warm breasts—
last stars in an earthy sky.
All of my small gestures
are now stills.
Keep reading (and prefer) it as 'the messes en masse'.
'Morning snapped' line is excellent, and the final line too; all your gestures either elevate or hold you precarious...I suppose they could both.
Originally had the French, Colm, but thought it might be more "original" w/a play on it. Maybe. I like your predicament (elevate or precarious) approach. Thanks.