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Showing posts from January, 2019

A Poet's Journal: March 4th, 2015

  March 4th, 2015 There was a swoop in the air and, thinking it the wind, noticed a flock of song-birds passing over.  It is strange to wonder then, how many times we may say something with one intention in mind, but provide suitable ground for other unconscious actions.  When the birds pass, they do not think they are the wind, nor even birds. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: November 7th, 2013

November 7th, 2013 Most often what we fear is not the future itself, but what must be left behind.  But this is a strange thought because expectation arrives so quickly that it turns what is around us into a hindrance that cannot be let go of soon enough.  But it is also a melancholic thought because if we do not leave, the joy of giving breath to something that was for so long taken away, shall lengthen into the despair of us never feeling the flow of life again. Douglas Thornton

Seasons Of Mind ON SALE NOW!!

There is time for nothing else in this world but what we ourselves have set afoot, and finding the majority of our efforts occupied with a certain hope of reward, it is not distasteful to give ourselves pleasure with simplicity and joy in far-seeming whims.  Thus, it is the hope that, with the release of Seasons Of Mind, those of you may find in it a pleasure to your free time and a joy in reflection. Please note that Seasons Of Mind may be bought through any distribution channel (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc...) or by going to your local bookstore and ordering a copy.  But also, by clicking on the image below you get 10% off.  The ebook is still in the process of being formatted and should come out in the next week or two.

A Poet's Journal: November 5th, 2013

November 5th, 2013 We ask ourselves what conviction is, but cannot help but find that facility is sometimes an answer to the struggle.  There is honour in gaining something by force because the battle is for the most part a measure of one's will, yet the very intimacy with which we engage our rival becomes the merit by which the victory must be weighed.  We find ourselves at the center of this prospect of trying to gauge what is just in our demeanor so that every action may serve to better our contemplation, and in this there is neither fault nor the expectation of coming glory, merely a means by which to ease our daily toil.  If we find ourselves not up to our ambitions; if the dreams we had are now pale and sickly fomentations, the outlook has not been lost because the easy way was chosen, rather we realize the rivalry has become one of perpetuity and our interest a vague plea for the stability of life. We are never really near or far from what we want to accomplish, but al