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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
Racing along the Shenyang-Hainan Island Freeway alone. Going across the Hangzhou Bay alone. Playing amidst the Zhoushan Archipelago alone. Staying in a mountain village alone. Occupying a presidential suite alone. Using eight dinner sets alone. Drinking three hundred glasses alone.
You say you are not in a war zone, but look at all these deaths mounting up around you, this friend and that one suddenly gone, the news coming unexpectedly and from unexpected sources, and with each passing, other deaths: the death of friendships, of anticipation, of familiar voices ...
On the flight out of Manila / clouds sculpt prancing herds / & then the long drive south / to a home as we know it / back to a sound of almost rain.
If I could write you out of my system / I would / siphon every last drop away / drain the bloodstream / flatten memory / and sandpaper flesh / where skin impressed / upon skin / on your audio track / I would press delete ...
Distant she said. Superficial was his word. Words to describe all that they cared, after the years gone by, long gone, and two children now almost reared. Twenty they were, those changing years. Love replaced by void, even fears. A house, a high hill, ambitious pride. A façade, an emptiness.
Mary Oliver, who died recently, came to realise it's not just kneeling and kissing the ground that needs to be encouraged, but that the natural world itself, which fed and sustained her creatively and emotionally for a lifetime, is now endangered. We are in danger of wrecking creation.
Half past ten, I'm off to bed. One more whizz around the sun. Ho hum ... What's the point? If it were the solstice, maybe. All that nonsense on TV. And fireworks, celebrating what? The triumph of chronology? This year maybe I will die ...
He's recently retired / But not voluntarily and he / Walks down the street / With his two dinky dogs / Saying, off to the grind, as / I trudge up the hill, but / There is so much pain / In his voice as the trusty / Dinky dogs drag him on / Into the new world
If, when called upon at eighty years of age, I cannot prepare a sandwich, make a mess of my words, I fear that the thought may occur: I have my Seniors Card but I have no legacy, and I have no Torah, I have no Bible, and I have no Koran.
At twelve, halfway through too many stifling hours crammed in the Holden station wagon, three girls munch Mum's ham sandwiches in a Rotary park ... At thirty, waifs-and-strays Christmases with friends in our adopted southern city.
Curve it the way neck curves to shoulders, like the inside of an elbow, like a valley in spring. And send it out like glorious orphan; hovering in the style of infinite with no immediate purpose in mind in the unsubtle audacity of now.
You never will know all ... You'd have to be everywhere at once, be behind and in every word and act, flow with the charged breath of mote and light. To sum up: You'd have to be God. Poor Thing. For the one fact denied God is the unforeseen.
157-168 out of 200 results.