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Unpublished Poetry Series: The Thunder-Spirit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: 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

A Poet's Journal: April 21st, 2015

  April 21st, 2015 Watching the sunrise leaves us with a greater impression of what a day actually is.  When it starts up from the horizon, it does not have its sights set on how high it will go, nor what it must do, but only in giving off light, in clarifying what appears in front of it.  Our day already begins as the phantom of something we want to be, or have to be; before our eyes have even focused on the sun, we already think about when we can close them again; and so for many of us it never really rises, or hardly ever sets.  Perhaps the only thing decent in the world is to watch the sunlight brighten and fade, and leave all of our other actions to disappear beyond the shadow of doubt. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: April 16th, 2015

  April 16th, 2015 Hiking yesterday along the coast; the water clear blue, turquoise in the shallows.  It was warm, but the air felt of the frozen north.  A man came up to us and talked of the particular formations of sandstone, of a deep orange or yellow and porous, some able to be climbed into as a shelter, others with the fossilized remains of ancient marine life.  All along the trail are green prairies that fall deeply into the ocean and these, seen at a distance, seem to reflect the turquoise of the coves, contrasting with the dark limestone at the shore's edge, enough to think upon profound subjects and lose them in their eternity.  The maritime pines were letting out their pollen with each slight gust of wind and on the way back we found a new growth of mint, taken for an evening tea. Douglas Thornton

Unpublished Poetry Series: The Bowl-Carver

  Unpublished Poetry Series: The Bowl-Carver by Douglas Thornton The Bowl-Carver Closeness of the night, Figure of what is intimate, Turn the strange effects Of elusive image to dreams We shall never keep, And beauty of the eye unfolds From all misfortune, Through measure of love, or fairer Sort of sight attained, A hope that in despondent mind Memory will see The action missed. All things are made By revealing space Where nothing was, like when the moon Comes up, the further As its form seems to drift away, The night deepening With inner light admits a joy Seldom incomplete. Douglas Thornton