Saturday, February 20, 2010



The backs of eyelids pursue an
ever-falling wisdom of dark on
dark. Black spirals wind and even
Genius struggles to form a 
meaning from the dizzy shades of
black and light— 
or is it only Genius who tries?—
These gasping eyelids pursue
illumination even in the
shallow tides, the lucid sides,
to discover:
Only infinity stretches, dawdling, 
within each cell of
Day’s loyal lovers. 

Saturday, February 6, 2010


Hey there.



To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.


By Sharon Landstrom (me)


Thank you, April, for returning again.

Beauty is enough.

Your plethora of lively flowers and trees

Quiets my heart easily.

I know what I know.

The water is cool on my back as I listen

To the cadence of the waterfall.

The susurrus wind feels good.

It is the ripple of life on my skin.

For how long have I been sitting here?

Lost under the sun We are together,

Separated only be leisurely love.

Life in itself

Is everything,

Diaphanous sky, fresh sigh of light after a long winter.

It is enough that yearly, from the rain,


Comes crying out flowers, laughing eloquence with death.