Michael Kevin Spencer > Writing | WritersCafe.org

What says the rock, forest old? What says the sea, little shell? What says the child, pregnant mother? Kicking against the awkward ..

Once, I knew a fine song For true believers and all birds Believers in the possibility of moments Moments thrown between M..

My room is open to the turquoise sky To thoughts of birthdays, anniversaries Amaranthine flower-beds in the heart of July Fireworks, out ..

translated from the french

There was a man who lived a life of fire It was me, laughing at the fabric of time I was the internal nomad for whom Orange became..

A man toiled on a burning road It was me, never resting Deriving rage from meek cowardice It will not suffice, to remember you dear ..

So again I saw Myself becoming someone else It was not evolution, but displacement A metaphysics of my being Without clutching fin..

I stood musing in a black world It was not my own, it was The collective reductionism of our times The pouring ceaselessly of channels ..

I was in the darkness I could not feel my words Could not see the source-point Where all destiny arrives to I could not see my wo..

I love you, and you love me That is the important thing My interwoven existence You are the root of my life Like a tender veil..