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Unpublished Poetry Series: The Thunder-Spirit

  The Thunder-Spirit Night time--the orange Clouds withhold oncoming rain; Afar the thunder Lingers to oblivion: Restless are the ways That fulfill unspoken dreams Their lives amongst us, As time that summons passing As a startled bird To wake us in the moonlight Of a winter sleep. 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

A Reflection on a Former and a Forthcoming Work

Whether it be a blessing to be recognized for the work one creates, or that it simply pass into oblivion, it is not without some sort of worry that we undertake what we feel to be our duty and try to see in it the bit of perfection that we had hoped for.  Deception hides at every turn and what has been raised by indecision often leads to the regret that it were better left alone.  In truth, there is no middle ground in the work of art, it is rather the source from which all things have been defined, therefore it is we who return to ourselves by its acceptance.  Let others then decide what are the rules of any given art, we must simply believe ourselves to have put forth something according to our nature, and if it is individual, it shall have the good fortune of being universal. These sentiments, of course, have not passed lightly, but it is with the renewal of bringing forth another work that I look back to the former with a sense of evolution; for it remains as unfinished as

Book Release: Seasons Of Mind

In the coming days a new book entitled Seasons Of Mind will become available in print and electronic form at bookstores and online.  The texts are composed of reflections that first appeared on this website in 2016, but were written in the years 2011-2012.  They have since been recast and revised to bring forth that idea which they were all bearing towards, that of an interpretation of the poetic spirit.  For those of us then who still hold a certain respect for the written word and find it not idle to peer into the dimensions of human thought, such a book will not be considered worthless. Upon the same foundations were built the works of Pascal, Aurelius, and Montaigne.  But of course, it has neither of these for its model, nor does it profess to put forth any philosophy unless it be that of giving breath to the resurgence of poetical thought. Therefore, if it is through the confidence of our own whims that we are led past the ignorance of our darkest hour, it is also with inspir