Sunday, June 28, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Friedrich’s Oak Forest
the sepia fog begins to move through gothic ruins
and ten monks walk in unison,
a procession of ink silhouettes carrying
a coffin into the abandoned abbey.
The one remaining wall tells me it wants to face west
toward dry German snow, while the shadows creep
quietly under the glow of winter solstice.
The skeletal iron shapes of windows draw an outline
showing me the pattern of a rose window on the ground,
the glass gone with cannon fire. Only a crescent moon shines
on the crippled gravestones nobody wants to visit
and slowly the paint moves, slides around the canvas,
blurring the forms of faith and landscape of this hidden place.
and ten monks walk in unison,
a procession of ink silhouettes carrying
a coffin into the abandoned abbey.
The one remaining wall tells me it wants to face west
toward dry German snow, while the shadows creep
quietly under the glow of winter solstice.
The skeletal iron shapes of windows draw an outline
showing me the pattern of a rose window on the ground,
the glass gone with cannon fire. Only a crescent moon shines
on the crippled gravestones nobody wants to visit
and slowly the paint moves, slides around the canvas,
blurring the forms of faith and landscape of this hidden place.
©Shannon Horlor
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Burial
Such a long way to come
to read each stone, the celtic crosses
crumbling into soft ground,
unfixed and untouched
in the sun.
Finally I’ve seen
the village she was from
Hailsham, East Sussex, England,
One Victoria Road, the place my father was
born and the small red bricks
they left for prairie snow.
Such a long way to come
to read this eulogy for the last time
in front of strangers.
I expect to hear a bird or feel
the wind pass me by.
©Shannon Horlor
to read each stone, the celtic crosses
crumbling into soft ground,
unfixed and untouched
in the sun.
Finally I’ve seen
the village she was from
Hailsham, East Sussex, England,
One Victoria Road, the place my father was
born and the small red bricks
they left for prairie snow.
Such a long way to come
to read this eulogy for the last time
in front of strangers.
I expect to hear a bird or feel
the wind pass me by.
©Shannon Horlor
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Arbutus Cove...
I celebrated summer on the way home from the beach
with a Slurpee and a box of Nerds - bliss!
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