susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: Empty Boxes
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013/12/empty-boxes.html
Art, poetry and prose. His life is stacked in boxes. In rooms where no one lives,. Seemingly waiting for a reason. While the bits and pieces. Caught between then and now,. Between why and how,. To an unwritten song. As I dance to music he can't even hear. T pours from empty boxes. From books on shelves,. Open to the light. It spills from empty boxes. And moves to the beat of an open heart. To the most beautiful sheet music. Anyone has ever shown me. Hum as I might, I can't write. And it sure isn't me!
susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: Curtin Call
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013/02/curtin-call.html
Art, poetry and prose. I can no longer respond to the inherent drama. Written into the script. Time and time again I find myself center stage. Aware only of the rewrites. It's an odd thing,. The shape and feel of a role. Once played to perfection,. I can still feel her on my skin. But her lines hang in my mind. Refusing to project themselves. To engage an audience. Missing my cues no matter how well directed. I take a deep, long bow. And leave the theater for good,. Deeming myself no longer fit to perform.
susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: Loose Threads
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013/02/loose-threads.html
Art, poetry and prose. I keep tripping on my own advice,. Catching my high minded heel in the. Toehold my perceptions have on me. Like a snag in a rug that I refuse to have mended. It's always the same. Believing in belief,. Thinking it the same as knowing. When knowing.true knowing, is beyond all belief,. Beyond the thought process entirely. Knowing is direct, arising in the moment at hand. Never based on the loose threads of belief. Waiting to trip me up. Entitled, In Finite, from my series, Otherwyze.
susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: Out Of The Woods
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013/02/out-of-woods.html
Art, poetry and prose. Out Of The Woods. We are not,. Lost in a dark, dense wood. Each of us,. The dark, dense wood. In which we are lost. The sooner we stop listening to. Those calling from the edge. Of their perceived freedom,. The sooner we will discover. It is an inner path.solitary. But with common perspectives. That fool many into believing. It is a shared journey. Unfortunately, knowing this doesn't mean. I am out of the woods yet. But remembering it keeps me from. Calling to you from the edges.
susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: Ten Thousand Deaths
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013/02/ten-thousand-deaths.html
Art, poetry and prose. After awhile the dying isn't so bad. Ya get used to it. Ideas of me bud, bloom and wither;. Thoughts on a vine. That really causes the problems. The insistence that a flowering notion. Reach its most beautiful, fragrant peak. And sustain itself.right there. Forever adored.forever ador-able. Better to see from the start. The futility from which they are seeded. An ever wilting bouquet of notions. Realizing that all is experience and nothing more. All the while tending my garden.
susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: February 2013
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013_02_01_archive.html
Art, poetry and prose. Out Of The Woods. We are not,. Lost in a dark, dense wood. Each of us,. The dark, dense wood. In which we are lost. The sooner we stop listening to. Those calling from the edge. Of their perceived freedom,. The sooner we will discover. It is an inner path.solitary. But with common perspectives. That fool many into believing. It is a shared journey. Unfortunately, knowing this doesn't mean. I am out of the woods yet. But remembering it keeps me from. Calling to you from the edges.
susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: Voice Of Reason
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013/02/voice-of-reason.html
Art, poetry and prose. Nothing is so urgent that I seek to escape myself within it. For me it's just not there anymore. At least not to any measurable degree. Once quite good at hiding from myself. Within any given crisis,. I could always be counted on to extend myself,. Today I can stand perfectly still. Within the midst of any whirlwind. It's nice to be the calm voice of reason,. Even if I am the only one listening. Entitled, In Finite, from my series, Otherwyze. Out Of The Woods. Called On The Carpet.
susanstorey.blogspot.com
Susan Storey.....: December 2013
http://susanstorey.blogspot.com/2013_12_01_archive.html
Art, poetry and prose. His life is stacked in boxes. In rooms where no one lives,. Seemingly waiting for a reason. While the bits and pieces. Caught between then and now,. Between why and how,. To an unwritten song. As I dance to music he can't even hear. T pours from empty boxes. From books on shelves,. Open to the light. It spills from empty boxes. And moves to the beat of an open heart. To the most beautiful sheet music. Anyone has ever shown me. Hum as I might, I can't write. And it sure isn't me!
