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Showing posts from April, 2021

Unpublished Poetry Series: The Field-Watcher

  The Field-Watcher When in the shadows of the passing day A seat is found, asleep in calm Soundness, as activity of the mind Cease, and the slow and wavy dreams Of reality vanish by timeless Art, he who observes the secrets Of the fast-forgotten world finds purpose Insensible to sleep, remnant Of future life.  The fullness of the stars Softly infuse the distant sky With rays of obscure light, the horizon Ever holds the dawn in glimmer. Douglas Thornton 2018

A Poet's Journal: February 14th, 2015

  February 14th, 2015 What is with the recording of a journal if it is not to look back upon it one day and see our ignorance, and to a lesser extent, find out the times that we have been most genuine.  The truth is that it is difficult to like oneself in hindsight because we can see that we are merely running up against our own ego time and time again, wondering why things are this way and always asking what if.  Our whole sense of individuality is based on the thought that we are different, that we suffer more, are happier, more discerning, always the better or worse of everybody else; but if it comes to us as such, if we must convince ourselves that the materiality of our thoughts is the only way to end our troubles, then that means that we are lacking something either way, that we are ignorant of whom exactly we truly are and only look into ourselves to find an answer satisfying enough.  It is rare indeed to find someone completely hidden, whose own words do not lean upon him for s

Last chance to read The Hunter's Moon!

  The Hunter's Moon  will cede its place to the new issue at The Elevation Review at the beginning of May, so here is your last chance to read before archival on this website.  Please click on the following link to read:  The Hunter's Moon by Douglas Thornton The Hunter’s Moon When all the sky is dark And there is just a cloud Of a height, illuminated By the far away sun, They gather what is the object Of the world, those who try To touch it. The cherished Are impressions of fullest night, When the gleam in our eyes Has not adjusted to the earth, As swift and nameless birds To hold our sight, make day Stand firm, while the spiritual Thought we sink down beside Moves on at its own abiding. Always kind in measure Behind the ferns, or up The hillside walking, has grief made The animal-spirit Known, but cannot call it by name, Long since, in the evening’s Low horizon, the dark Outlines of figures lie in wait. So bring the warm south wind To placid waters, and the streak Of summ