You…

The fragmentation of you

Is what makes you beautiful!

 

Thatcher Doran

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Pain

Pain is non-transferrable

It is always subjective

Always personal!

 

Thatcher Doran

 

 

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Morning Song

Across a morning sky

White wads steadily

Accumulate…clouds

Drift and shift

Changing form and narrative

An ancient language

Beyond words and verse

Beyond installation and place

A blue canvas in transition

Troubadours in space

Clouds…in silent bellow

A story unfolds…

 

Thatcher Doran

 

 

 

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Photographs

Words are photographs

Capturing the moment

Before they fade

Collapsing into the ether

Fragmented, like drops of rain

 

Thatcher Doran

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Possession

A moment is the only enigma

One can truly possess!

 

Thatcher Doran

 

 

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Waiting Just Like Everyone Else

Today promises a day of spring

The air is warm

Regardless of the breeze

Finally fractures winter’s grip

Generates a contemplative

Mood

A slender crack

In Time’s continuum

Waiting for the Moment

To squeeze through that

Illusive enigma

A string of possibilities

Like beads

Camouflaged as raindrops

Hanging on a platform bench

Waiting just like everyone else…

 

Thatcher Doran

 

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Relentless

Sitting in the shadow of the sun

By the window of the cafe

Silently bearing witness

To the enigma that is life

The variety of lives

Unknown to me…

Intrigued by the absence

Of sound

Where the visual is deceiving

The undertone is deaf

It seems life is curious

And, stubbornly enduring

Relentless in fact…

 

Thatcher Doran

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Then…Now and When…

I look at the sky

And try…

To remember

Ask why?

Then…Now and When…

The paradox of change

The sound of the same

The fragility of everything

As we try possess

And yet, there is only

The facade…

Mirror or wall

Even, what passes for etiquette

 

Thatcher Doran

 

 

 

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The Consist Reminder

Day to day

The endless cycle

Turns

The consist reminder

A persistence…

A tenacity…

Oh beautiful but frail

Humanity

Blake’s words of innocence

And experience

Of faith and dreams

Beware…

The four horsemen

Of the apocalypse

 

Thatcher Doran

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Slip, Sliding Away…

The last train

Slips

Through deserted yard

Pass metal fence…

That naked lazy bank

And on

Towards satellite posts

Then, the flatlands

This snake will blink

And wink

At ditch and tree

Into the last hour

Of a vexed day

In the quietness of a carriage

A man rests his head

Against a moving pane

Another dying day

Weighs heavy

Against the almost silent

Ticking watch

Slip, sliding away…to dream

 

Thatcher Doran

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