Sad and hopeful, Shannan. Thank you for this. There is a place. For now, it is here, still, despite losses, so much beauty, tenderness, touch, smell, taste, hear--presence. These bodies are a burden, but without them, there is no laughter. Without them, there is love, but no ability to feel it. Courage.
I too have been lost in rumination of decay and trying to pan for what’s left of the gold. I’ve found some treasure in the spirit of infinity, of what beauty comes next, of what’s beyond our control.
I love “How cruel the gavel of time” for its pounding finality, and at first misread it as the gravel of time, which evoked an hourglass bursting with too-rocked-up sand. Thank you for sharing your poetry! Substack is an expansive well for verse, for sure.
As so much big-picture trouble around us is leaning harder into the straining seams, this affirms the need for poetry. And capable poets. To get us to grab our roots firmly and hold tight to the view from here. When troubles spread in broad strokes, hope needs to be specific. As Shannan makes it here.
Sad and hopeful, Shannan. Thank you for this. There is a place. For now, it is here, still, despite losses, so much beauty, tenderness, touch, smell, taste, hear--presence. These bodies are a burden, but without them, there is no laughter. Without them, there is love, but no ability to feel it. Courage.
I too have been lost in rumination of decay and trying to pan for what’s left of the gold. I’ve found some treasure in the spirit of infinity, of what beauty comes next, of what’s beyond our control.
Wonderful!
Beautiful. I’m glad your note cajoled me into coming here and reading it.
LOVE this!!
"Spying birds migrating away to warmer
mountains, I can almost fool myself
that there is such a place for me too."
I have chills.
Thank you for this.
I love “How cruel the gavel of time” for its pounding finality, and at first misread it as the gravel of time, which evoked an hourglass bursting with too-rocked-up sand. Thank you for sharing your poetry! Substack is an expansive well for verse, for sure.
As so much big-picture trouble around us is leaning harder into the straining seams, this affirms the need for poetry. And capable poets. To get us to grab our roots firmly and hold tight to the view from here. When troubles spread in broad strokes, hope needs to be specific. As Shannan makes it here.
Mustanging is a Sasquatch word: rarely encountered, you’re not sure if it’s real. Nice! Very fitting for this lightning-in-a-bottle poem.
Shannan!!!!! This poem is phenomenal 🔥🌎
Somehow I experienced the reading of this as both grounding and expansive. Lovely.
How beautiful! 🫶🫶❤️❤️
Really beautiful and poignant.
Love your created noun to verb "mustanging along pastures"! Your end line- reminding me so many things are wondrous (impossible, really!)
Gorgeous
This is all I want for Christmas: poems.