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Showing posts from February, 2022

Unpublished Poetry Series: The Field-Watcher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: April 30th, 2015

  April 30th, 2015 It is easy to think that books are worthy for the knowledge they impart, but there is something even greater.  The moment we realize that they have been with us for many years, hidden in the background, a silent companion to our inward movements, and in one instant come forth to charm us or engage us in an old friendship, it is right then, the moment of that first meeting, that we hold in highest regard.  We know not of our joys or our misgivings until they find unique expression; in books there is a place for our troubles, and a word for our vision. It helps us look back at the places we've been and whom we've seen, giving perspective, never harsh or unneeded, but always with the glow of a distant light and an unerring respect.  And finally, when the book no longer serves its purpose, but has introduced us to something much deeper within ourselves, we can shrug off and get rid of our attachment, and turn to what remains unwritten. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: April 24th, 2015

  April 24th, 2015 It does not matter how much we see the world because there is always something to it that is not exactly attainable.  A wild landscape, a colorful bug, an unexpected stray dog, they hide behind a meaning that we search for, and whether we find it or not, we accept them into our experience as having given us some insight.  Our opinion and our reconciliation with this opinion is the only way happiness is thought to be had.  When the wild landscape is no longer wild, it does not grieve, but our spirit is conquered by the fact. When our happiness is no longer so, the stray dog is a pitiful creature; thus we create the stories that keep us in the world we live in.  But if there is a world outside of this, where do we look, and do we want to see something that is devoid of our sentiment?  If we hold the rope too long our hands will blister, but if we let go, the rope will no longer be there to save us.  Some may ask why they are holding the rope in the first place, and som