life

it's the crashing of the wave,
      and the rythm of the dance.

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where is the heart?

where is the heart
   when it beats too swiftly?
where is the soul
 when it soars?
   does it beat its wings,
    does it flutter,
    does it hover,
or merely wish to be heaven born?

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october

spilling us into the sea

we all sit at the edge
      really
dangling our feet into the deep-end
waiting for the world to tilt
      ever so slightly
spilling
      us
        into
        the sea

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jh

walking now
    short work you’ve made of that

but, forget not
to walk with jesus

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a painting in progress

le tournesol © rlbussell 2016 Silverpoint & ink on gessoed panel

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Reading List

Father's Day

boo II

frighteningly beautiful,
  a frail teacup of a girl.
      —   changed
      all,
        ever

            — upon the anniversary of your birth, 2015

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boy!

join with us in celebrating
  opened eyes, clenched fists, quivering lips
    heaving sighs, petulant cries — anticipate the quips
nevermore can the thing — be just the thing
          — on the birth of my grandson

 
family


family-focus

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boo

words are fleetingly solid things,
  they sit upon the tongue
  and stammer out of old and young
     and like heaving lung,
        grab for purchase
          when all is gone.
  So, take with you,
    my dear boo,
      these lisping lines.
      remembering not my
      faltering tongue and stumbling hand
      for tho I did not always know where to stand,
        I stood with you,
            hand in hand.
      — your father, on your wedding day, May 24, 2013

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engagement photo

gilton/ rogers

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dr

like the slow/fast paced ticking of a film
    silently going by
why question the moving of the clock?

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mon coeur

Marching
    is heard in my slow, slow ears,
       like the tapping of snares in the
    distance,

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