Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together – Vincent Van Gogh


He would trudge home

Grimy and exhausted,

After corseting buildings with bamboo all day.

Moth eaten, wooden polls,

Held together with thin coir string,

Around dreams that reach

Up to catch the wind.

Precarious, wobbly,

Lives depended on it,

Often his.

And by the flickering kerosene lamp

The rice gruel boiling on the wood fire,

He inks elegant, moving verse.

His voice still floats through my reverie as I gaze up into the night sky.

Gosh, I think, “the only reason I get away with some of the tripe I write,

Is because I publish on a blog”


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Tag Cloud

%d bloggers like this: