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173 · Aug 2018
I identify
Steve Page Aug 2018
I identify as a poet,
a writer-poet
with a bent towards rhythms and patterns that are pleasing to the tongue
and to the ear.
On paper, the words are captured
with clear order and definite lines.
Spoken, the sounds wrap around and seep into ear canals,
flowing with less order, with greater freedom.

I identify as an artist,
a sound-artist,
with a bent towards the human voice, using words that worm their way into the human consciousness,
lodging there to make a new home,
free to morph into new installations with an art of their own making.

I identify as a poet.
What am I at my core? A writer.  I worship with a pen in my hand. I capture stray thoughts for later use. That's what I am.
173 · Aug 2020
Moreh
Steve Page Aug 2020
The great tree stood waiting
until he got there -
as far as there
at the appointed time
long before the promised time
before the arrival of offspring.

And the trees still stand
in anticipation
of the greater remainder of the promise.
Genesis 12.  Trees are important.
171 · Oct 2017
Night Out
Steve Page Oct 2017
Embracing the collective.
Grasping the nettle.

Hugging the toilet.
Regretting the rebel
in me.
Good times in retrospective.
170 · Oct 11
I see beauty
Steve Page Oct 11
I see Beauty
Brighter when clouded,
Bolder when challenged,
Brilliant when questioned.
I see Beauty
Burnished by affliction
Blossomed with age.
I see Beauty
In you.
170 · Sep 2018
Friday night horrors
Steve Page Sep 2018
Every fire fascinates
Each battle beggars belief
News of drought and death
Sees viewing figures increase

Solemn faces on the screen
Scenes that 'may cause distress'
Each prompt us to be thankful
That our lives are so blessed

Now move along the sofa
I've got a heavy tray
I'm ready for a horror
Just - press - play
21st Century London
169 · Jan 2018
Thanks
Steve Page Jan 2018
She closed her eyes
serene in her anticipation of There,
in her unshakable hope for Then.
And blind, she sat
unaware of the joy of the Here,
closed to the pleasure of the Now
- both within an arms reach of her dreaming.

She opened her eyes
smiling at the memory of what was
laughing at what had been
looking back with thanks.
And thankful, she sang
And thankful, she shouted
with echoes of healing,
of growing,
of climbing -
to the Here,
to the Now,
ready for the Next,
anticipating the Not Yet
and prepared for all that is promised.

But for now
she looked back
with thanks
and she - just - sang!
Looking forward with hope and back with thanks.
169 · Jan 2018
Miracles and rumours
Steve Page Jan 2018
The winter miracle of having enough settled with a smile next to the ample blessing of sufficiency and the happy gift of needs met. They chatted contentedly under their tailored shelter as they watched the prize of satisfaction coming up to meet them, bringing with her the familiar rumour of future plenty.
Oh, how they laughed.
Written looking ahead at a lean 2018.
168 · Dec 2023
What would Baloo do?
Steve Page Dec 2023
I'm in my grandchild's bedroom.
She's not here yet
so I get to sleep beneath
a floor to ceiling green forest
and within arms reach of shelves of fairytales
buttressed by well-read tigers,
ad I hear Sheer Khan ask me to choose
my character - the grandad I would aspire to be -
A bare necessities Baloo?
Or nearer to a prudent Bagheera?

So I ask myself,
what would Baloo do?
The nursery is just about finished, ready for grandchild #1 next month.
168 · Jan 2018
Your Eyes
Steve Page Jan 2018
I love a portrait,
how it contains a moment.
- So many layers,
of the one sitting.

I love a song,
how it resonates with each voice.
- So much eloquence,
captured within a refrain.

I love a cloud,
how it moves with such grace.
- So majestic,
weather permitting.

I love the sea,
how it takes no prisoners.
- So wild and untamed,
tethered to the moon.

I love your eyes,
how they dance with mine.
- So revealing,
laden with secrets.
A rift off of Framed.
167 · Jun 2020
Grounded
Steve Page Jun 2020
To be as grounded as a kite,
dancing wild in the wind,
eyes on the sky,
but secure in my roots,
in my tether
to excited, nimble hands.
Suns out. Winds up.
167 · Apr 2018
Oh how he laughed
Steve Page Apr 2018
"If we could bottle your personality,
we could poison the whole world," he said,
shaking his head in disbelief.
And my dad laughed
and repeated this
to colleagues
to friends
to family
for years
with a grin.
And no one laughed.
My dad was wonderful and vicious.
167 · May 2018
My mother's joy
Steve Page May 2018
I love my mother's joy:
fleeting yet intense in its feeling
as she finds and holds a life belt
only to lose it once more
and so turns to me for my hand.
Preparing for my visit to see my mum.
166 · May 2020
Perspective
Steve Page May 2020
My life experience.
His timeless scripture.
Which is the lens?
And which is the picture?
My answers starting to change.
166 · Apr 2020
Nursery Rhyme #1
Steve Page Apr 2020
Steve the poet sat at his desk
Steve the poet made a great mess
All of his pencils and all of his pens
Couldn't help Steve make a stanza of sense
A response to Humpty Dumpty.
165 · Oct 4
Lunch with Amy
Steve Page Oct 4
Is the nose ring new I wondered
as we hugged and exchanged a kiss
Surely I would have noticed
If she’d had a nostril pierced

Has she had her hair re-tinted
Is that something I’d have missed
I’m sure I would have noticed
if she’d had a nostril pierced

I'm drinking in her smile and laughter
There’s little better than this
I know I would have noticed
If she’d had a nostril pierced

Could I check a recent photo
When she dips a salty chip
Ha! I knew I would have noticed
If she’s had a nostril pierced

“Love the new ring, darling.”

"It's been 14 years now, dad
Since I had my nose first pierced.
You really would have noticed
It's not something you could have missed."
Lunch with my daughter as she turns 33.
165 · Mar 2023
Spring 2021
Steve Page Mar 2023
Spring is a doing word
- quietly, softly, resolutely springing up
through the heavy clay, springing forward
past these ground hog days,
offering an initiation rite
of colour, warmth and new light.
Spring is a doing word – so let’s do it right.
Originally written for spring 21 when we all needed extra spring.
164 · Feb 2018
Tears
Steve Page Feb 2018
Just because she didn't see the light
doesn't mean she wasn't known

Just because you didn't hold her tight
doesn't mean she was alone

Just because she didn't find her voice
doesn't mean she wasn't heard

Just because we didn't stroke her head
doesn't mean she wasn't loved

One day you'll meet in heavens light
blinded by your tears

Tears of joy and eternal delight
flooding forgotten cares
Reflections on a miscarriage suffered by a young couple.
164 · Jan 2020
Big Art
Steve Page Jan 2020
Big Art: The art of collaboration.

Big bouncing, cushioning,
resonating, in-phasing.

Small piece-by-piece-making,

patch-working, ingredienting,
combining, conjoining,
absorbing,

- collaborating.
Rifting off a phrase heard on the radio.
162 · Sep 2017
Mighty Word
Steve Page Sep 2017
Blogging or podding,
Googling, Yahoo-ing,
Texting, Twittering,
Face-timing, Instagraming,
Snapchating, WhatsApping,
Messaging, Pinteresting
or good old fashioned
contemplative Tumblring -
whatever you're casting
your thumbs will be moving
like proverbial lightning
- proving again
the might of the word
over the keenest, lunging sword.
"The pen is mightier than the sword."
162 · Feb 2019
Out loud
Steve Page Feb 2019
The truth is better spoken,
that's how it becomes the truth.
It's when you form the words and speak
that truth will be true to you.

Your love is better given,
that's how it shows its worth.
It's when you find someone to love
that true love will emerge.

Your life is better lived out loud,
that's how it is fulfilled.
Its when you truly live your life
that your life is truly real.
No restraint - just grab your life and live it.
162 · Aug 9
Broken branches
Steve Page Aug 9
After a while of enjoying
the greens of the trees
and the mottled breeze,
I let the view sink in
then fade into the long view,

After my heart settles,
that's when I focus on the sapling,
stark in its youth.
I wonder about the speckled leaves
and the cracked bark,
then I follow the flow of the branches,
taking each in turn,
eying each branching to each tip.

It's then that I realise
there's one branch
that holds onto 2 severed,
lesser limbs.  

They look like they are attached,
part of the whole,
but the truth is they are detached,
precarious perhaps,
but enjoying wider movement,  
a greater degree of freedom.

Should I release them?
Should I lay them down to rest?
Or root for the deceit?
Leave them holding on
for as long as they can?

Then the breeze rises
into a gust,
and the choice is taken away.  

That's when I find myself weeping.
Sitting in Richmond Park, London.
162 · Jul 2020
Every good path
Steve Page Jul 2020
That I may understand every good path
That wisdom may reside in my heart
That knowledge and discretion may be my guard
This is my prayer to you, my guide and my God
Proverbs 2
161 · Sep 8
Received Art
Steve Page Sep 8
I practice the art of receiving art
Not grasping it , not seeking to utilise it
Rather relax-sitting, receiving it
Recognising God's gifting of it
But happy to let it rest
where I can better meet it,
just beyond my practiced insight.
Some of the best art lies just beyond my grasp, where it belongs.
161 · May 2022
Purpose over achievement
Steve Page May 2022
Live by a compass of purpose
Not a map of achievement
Celebrate the discovery of the quiet
and challenge the call of the loud

Live by a compass of purpose
It does not circumvent the turbulent
But culverts the tempest of highways
where rage and impatience rule

Live by a compass of purpose
Point yourself to the path home
where you belong.
Prompted by a comment by Tom Hiddleston
160 · Aug 2019
(Scarred tree)
Steve Page Aug 2019
My familiar haematoma
was happy dying,
thinking itself resilient
and settled into the can't
of lasting scaring.

And then the green came
and grew through the wounding,
imprinting its healing,
its green growing with hope
of growth, causing my pulsing
to phase into trusting
for perhaps
a whole new colourful beginning.
From a writing exercise in Stratford Park.
160 · Apr 9
Joys found
Steve Page Apr 9
Where's your joy?
Where have you found it?
If it's not there before you
turn your face to it.

Where's your joy?
Are you able to grasp it?
If it's not within reach
take steps towards it.

Where's your joy?
And are you enjoying it?
Life's worth the effort
for the joy found within it.
Life is too short.
160 · Mar 2019
SPAM
Steve Page Mar 2019
Curating multiple identities
Creating original content
Time on social media
is ( * ) time well spent

* never / rarely / always / dinner
Your choice.
160 · Apr 2022
London 1 and 2
Steve Page Apr 2022
London 1

It’s a jigsaw
an impossible jigsaw of irregular shapes,
no corners and no box.
A spectrum of letters and codes,
numbers that don’t add up - in any direction,
no apparent design and no consistency,
a ring and a circle offering a little diversion
and a blue-brown vein from top left to far right
meandering unhelpfully.

It’s a jigsaw.
Ten million pieces
and every - fragment - fits.

London 2

I was born in South London.
No.  South-East London.
I have lived in North-West London,
in South-West London
and in West London.
East London is a place of work.

These are miles apart.

Codes and customs disconnected
by a river (which was here first)
and by motorways (that came much later).

and I remain.
London is my home.  And the world is here.
Steve Page Jun 7
coats are discarded, but the hall hooks stay empty
*****-top wine is opened without ceremony
fingers are favored over tooth picks without apology
conversations touch past pain and current joys effortlessly

shared memories are shared and new ventures discoursed
loved books are returned (unread) or offered
repeated yawns are ignored, reconnection preferred
until later… and dark rain greets their departure.
a lovely evening with lovely mates
159 · Jan 2020
Unreliable
Steve Page Jan 2020
I write for the unreliable reader, the one who reads what they want, whether they want and how they want
- not reliably reading though my eyes and carefully abiding with my well placed breaks in line, my enjambments, separation of themes into stanzas or even a subtle semicolon.

I write for you and entrust to you
my heartache, my headaches
my angst, my joy
my mess ups, my bust ups
my skewed views, my hard pews
my shouts, my sullen frowns
my walks, my sleep
my songs, my guffaws
my control, my dance
my destruction, my elevation
my blame, my late claims
my relish, my shame
my togetherness, my brokenness
my sleep-kicks, my daybreak
my jealousy, my generosity
my rewinds, my reruns
my hospital runs, my mother's hands
my triggers, my pretence
my pride, my bullies
my children, my memories
my past, my now
my decisions, my abdications
my loss, my child
my teen, my adult
my space, my confinement
my health, my ailment
my green, my red
my therapy, my surgery
my war, my peace
my time, my eternity
my kindness, my hate
my tea, my cider
my queuing, my waiting
my coming, my leaving
my life, my death
my ever after
- these are yours.
Just turn the page
having to let go and trust the reader.
159 · Jul 2018
Lauren
Steve Page Jul 2018
I know a young woman named Lauren
Who seems to be wearing a sporran
Oh no she's not
It's a bottle that's hot
Its offsetting the artic aircon
And this is a parting poem for a passing temp who moved on from out team recently.  She'll be remembered for many things but especially her hot water bottle in its furry cover.
159 · Mar 1
Space Jesus
Steve Page Mar 1
I hear talk of Space Jesus:
A prince escaping a slaughter,
Surviving a journey through the desert,
Joining with the people
he came to save

- and then he rides giant worms....

I prefer the historical version,
the Christ Jesus.
Listening to reviews of Dune II
159 · Oct 7
A Hug. 2024
Steve Page Oct 7
a hug is a huge thing
a something that can envelop
can cause me to well up
can burst through my well built up defences
and knock down fences
that have stood the test
of time-honoured conventions
that respected my distance
and even admired my stiff upper prevention
of anything like a display of affection

a hug is a long held committing
a massive undertaking
that leaves a long-lasting indentation of serious loving.

A hug is a huge thing.
We need a hug.
Revisiting a 2020 poem.  Still true.
With thanks to patty m and Boris Cho for the prompt.
157 · Jan 2020
My mother's ashes
Steve Page Jan 2020
While smoking my mother's ashes
in my father's stale pipe
I felt a curious high, which was strange
- the rest of the batch had been expectedly bland

and homely. I walked the aroma through her discarded bungalow,
into the kitchen, out into the bare garden following the line

of the absent washing over the sunken stepping stones,
ending in the cul-de-sac of her rock garden of heather and herbs.

I sat on the concrete steps of the dismantled green house
letting the hit of the ash fill my lungs, holding it there

until it filled my head, before very slowly
breathing out the deep memory
of mum and dad, shouting and laughing and l allowed myself

to float above the colour of the border plants, up out of reach
of the childhood sprawl until I was back in her smoke filled room,
full of her emptiness - chin raised in silent prayer for one last breath.

And still gripping the warm bowl of my high, I sang her songs,
knees-up with the best of them and with mum on both arms, chin raised high

with a chorus of belief in family and friends and neighbourhood
and how this was never going to end well,

but meanwhile we'll have a party
making sure the whole street knows they're welcome
- and all the more if they have grief to smoke and memories to sing
- surely this is a life worth living.

Put another record on,
there's tea on the ***, ashes in our pipes
and songs to sing.
I was given the first line in a workshop and was surprised where that took me.
157 · Jul 23
I am the Good Shepherd
Steve Page Jul 23
I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his clear voice, one I knew I knew,
seeking me out, drawing me in
from the dark.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his broad shoulders as he lifts me,
carrying me back to good pasture,
back home.

I place my faith in the battered shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders forgiving enough to haul a cross,
strong enough to bear my full weight
whatever the cost.

Yes, I believe in the shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders broad enough for every black sheep,
strong enough when we are lost
and when we are weak.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus –
throwing his arms welcome wide
and lifting me into this embrace,
safe from all wolves and the thickest of thickets.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus
betraying His Father’s family trait
of rescue and acceptance.

I believe in the good shoulders of Jesus.
That’s where I place my faith.
John 10: 14 “I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me— 15 just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep. 16 I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. They too will listen to my voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd.
Luke 15:  4 “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? 5 And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders 6 and goes home.
157 · Jun 2019
Promise
Steve Page Jun 2019
Promise me
not to promise me any more
don't say don't dream don't plan
any more
just show just do
what your heart
what your gut
what you want
and if you want me
you'll find me here for you
I promise
Words are nothing compared to deeds
157 · Aug 2017
Dry
Steve Page Aug 2017
Dry
By the time the day catches up with me
The moon is full
And my tears have dried.
Tomorrow will be better.
155 · Oct 2019
Can we?
Steve Page Oct 2019
can we skip the bit
where I'm not sure
what it is you feel
and if it's the same
as the feeling
that I'm feeling is possibly real
and possibly how
someone as amazing
as you is feeling right here
right now?

- can we dispense with the fear
that what appears
to be actually here
is actually just a figment
a fiction based on
a misread permission
to stay this close, mistaken
like a ghost of a reflection
in a tarnished mirror
that hides the terror
of being seen this clearly
by another.

- can we move on
to the unguarded laughter
and the freedom to touch
the surface of your face
and the assurance
that we've reached across
a safe place,
a within-our-reach shared space.

- can we stay in this moment
for as long as this path lasts
and can this path
take us from our past on
into a future without-masks
where we nurture
each other to greater
and to deeper
laughter?

- can we do that?
We've all been there.  It's a necessary part of a new relationship, but oh how we wish to get past it.
154 · Apr 2020
Shopping. Queuing.
Steve Page Apr 2020
Queuing -
When I was growing
it was second nature.
Then we got out the habit -
and started congregating and lingering,
vaguely hovering til the bus arrives
and then converging
with no reference to order
or deference to aging.
Or begrudgingly taking a number
and waiting our turn
til called forward, bringing us
out of our revelry.

It's different now.
Now we get there early,
expecting a wait, a line,
spaced out like it's leprosy
that we're suffering -
Like we're resisting
being associated with the others
who are queuing.

Shuffling.

Waiting.

And once arriving,
being begrudgingly admitted
by the high-viz guy who's masking,
and he's insisting
that our partner
has to wait outside
where it's freezing.

Now queuing
is our new necessity -
our communal normality.

Maybe it'll stick
and we'll be sticklers
for a queue that's orderly.

And maybe - just maybe
we'll find that the queues move
a little
more
quickly.
Experience of shopping has changed here in London
154 · Jun 12
Tight Grip
Steve Page Jun 12
Sometimes
it's about pushing through.

But more often
it's more about
timing the next turn

or taking the next bend

with a tight grip
against the rain.
Life's lessons.
154 · Dec 2019
Dorcis Avenue
Steve Page Dec 2019
I make a mug of tea and butter a slice of toast and am not surprised by her smile, years before and right there, waiting for me with the sound of The Express being folded, crossword almost completed, as she rises for a kiss and a 'hello love', and the trusted 'I've got the kettle on'.
We hug and I sit as she stands and takes down two mugs, just as she recalls something or another that she meant to give me last visit and now wonders where she placed for safe keeping for this moment - and she's gone,
leaving me sitting in the kitchen resting in the familiarity of her calls from the other room telling me she'll find it in a sec and chiding herself, until her cry of finding and her return
with something of my dad's that she thought I'd like or perhaps a grey photo, with a young me, head sliced to fit a frame long discarded, but having left its trace with a stain of Sellotape
- and then we talk of nothing but people and happenings that left family stains we cherish for the pictures they conjure and for the bond left undiminished by time and if anything made stronger by any mug of tea and toast and the still-left-unlocked front door always ready to receive me with a 'hello love' from deep within the home that stayed open forever and now keeps a space open for memories and a silent undertaking that I'll somehow perpetuate this welcome.
First Christmas without mum.  Memories come without warning.
154 · Nov 2020
None of my best friends
Steve Page Nov 2020
None of my best friends
are poets

They live different
They walk faster
They're more organised
They have more friends

They are readers
occasionally
And writers
spasmodically
- never pathologically

My best friends
are breakers of silence
and I need them more
than they need me
True
153 · Apr 2020
Where the quiet is
Steve Page Apr 2020
If I
when I'm shouting
when I'm shouting in the tin-roof rain
against the stadium crowd
If I
when in the white shadow of her pain
bone marrow and head to toe
If I
fail to make myself heard
then I only have myself to blame

- I'm practiced enough
in finding a way through
through careful positioning
through forceful attention grabbing
with her head in both hands
taking her head to mine
and catching her eyes
brow to brow and toe to toe
until she knows I'm there
and that she can come back to us here
where the quiet is.
Sensory overload in children is crippling.  This was kicked off by a reading of https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46483/danse-russe .  But I went in a different direction.
151 · Apr 2020
The smile of magic
Steve Page Apr 2020
Zero cubed has no more value than zero squared,
but has a more pleasant shape and is able to bear greater weight.

It always reminds me of a spell I learned as a teen
from the rag and bone horse who was never in a hurry
and was always happy to chat,
sharing his experience which came from many roads
and long hot summers in the '50s
when he was younger and less careful.

Zero, he told me, is a useful start
to many constructions and worth mastering
if you ever intend to move on to primes.
Primes are slippery, he explained, and require focus.

Zeros similarly require a focused mind, but are easier to build with.

So I spent the summer of '74 getting used
to the feel and the texture of various zeros,
then carefully moved on to zero squared.
By the September, just before school, I'd started playing with zeros cubed
with not a little success.

I picked them up again in the Christmas holidays and then,
almost by accident, I came across the spell:
zero times zero times zero divided by infinity.

It still makes me smile.

The following spring I discovered girls.
And for the next 6 years I put the zeros aside.

But I won't quickly forget Benjamin, 1974
and the smile of magic.
Mixed memories of my childhood. The bit about girls is pure fantasy.
151 · May 2018
Friday night stories
Steve Page May 2018
Protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me and my mates will testify loudly that I've held them close and testified to their six percent proof deep into the beer fueled night, tears clouding my glasses and my judgement, cliffs hanging dangerously close to the edge of despair with my back up against the howls of derision which fall on deaf, hard ground and against all hope stand, still next to my protected fictions which have stood the test of years, old and undeniably true to me...
Stories get taller with a few drinks.
151 · Jul 30
not the end
Steve Page Jul 30
There was a little boy
who was so sad and so scared
all he could do was be grown up all day
(or as grown up as he knew how).
That was how he could
keep wading through the sadness and
climbing over the scariness
while keeping his eyes on the important stuff
while keeping his mind off the sad and scary stuff.

But eventually he got to end the day, and
that’s when he turned off the light and laid down.
That’s when the sadness and scariness grew louder -
so loud that his eyes couldn’t stay on the important stuff,
cos they were closed.

In fact, it was in his sleep
that the sad stuff and scary stuff grew more important
and the other stuff
(you know, the friendships and the purpose-ness),
well, that became like a dream
– and not a good dream.

The weird thing was that
the more he lay with his eyes closed, and
the more he got to rest his eyes
on the sad and the scary,
the more tired he got and
the harder it got
to lift his eyes and
to lift his feet and
the easier it was
to roll away.

If that had been the end of the story,
then it would have fed the sad and scary
and the boy would have never got to
lift his eyes and
lift his feet ever again.

So, we can’t let this be the end. Cos if
‘it will be alright in the end’
and it isn’t alright yet,
then it’s not the end, is it?

So, let’s all write some more.
i believe in the power of story in the right hands
151 · Sep 2019
Chin
Steve Page Sep 2019
Do you get me?

No shame, you know.
Just small self doubt
a violent chin
and contention for identity
for happiness
for unafraid space
with a smile and Stanley.

Do you get me?
Knives in the hands of those who don't know what a Gillette is for - it's a sad thing.
150 · Sep 2018
The answer is Yes.
Steve Page Sep 2018
Will the hurdles be high?
Are the footpaths steep?
Will the days be long?
and cause me to weep?

Will you be there too?
Will you have time for me?
Will you let me down
and return by degrees?

Will I fill my shoes?
Can I act my age?
Will I brave the crowds?
Can I seize the day?

The answer is Yes
it has always been so
so get off your ****
it's now time to go.
'Get off your ****' is London's version of 'Carpe Diem'.
148 · Sep 2019
If she says it is
Steve Page Sep 2019
If she says it is
then it is
poetry
and don't try to tell her
any different
cos that would be your lie
against her truth
and we've all seen
where that boot leads
- art reduced down
to out of 5 stars reviews
and the boo's of the many
smothering the true of the few
and that dilutes truth
for us all, including you.
So, if she says it is
then it is
poetry
and true.
Art is in the eye of the holder of the pen, not in the eye of the beholder.
148 · Sep 2018
Where
Steve Page Sep 2018
Where do we go when we're asleep?
Where do you go when I'm asleep?
Where do I go when you're asleep?
Are we asleep now?
Where ARE we?
Kids' questions are deep.
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