Pinned
The wind unroots old griefs,
yet still they cling to me,
Like ivy gripping hard
to fading memory.
>
But time,
won’t dissolve
what’s relevant,
while the rest drifts off.
<
Thus pain becomes the seed
of what I must become,
And I am carried on,
as rivers are, by storms.
#vss365
yet still they cling to me,
Like ivy gripping hard
to fading memory.
>
But time,
won’t dissolve
what’s relevant,
while the rest drifts off.
<
Thus pain becomes the seed
of what I must become,
And I am carried on,
as rivers are, by storms.
#vss365
The oak unfolds its leaves,
slow-turned by sun,
each vein, each edge, arrives
when it should come.
slow-turned by sun,
each vein, each edge, arrives
when it should come.
November 25, 2025 at 9:44 AM
The oak unfolds its leaves,
slow-turned by sun,
each vein, each edge, arrives
when it should come.
slow-turned by sun,
each vein, each edge, arrives
when it should come.
The crocus knows,
perhaps, its destined hour,
when snow retreats,
when light begins to climb.
Each petal holds
a small, appointed power,
a whisper kept,
then spoken into time.
#poetry
perhaps, its destined hour,
when snow retreats,
when light begins to climb.
Each petal holds
a small, appointed power,
a whisper kept,
then spoken into time.
#poetry
November 25, 2025 at 9:15 AM
The crocus knows,
perhaps, its destined hour,
when snow retreats,
when light begins to climb.
Each petal holds
a small, appointed power,
a whisper kept,
then spoken into time.
#poetry
perhaps, its destined hour,
when snow retreats,
when light begins to climb.
Each petal holds
a small, appointed power,
a whisper kept,
then spoken into time.
#poetry
The wind unroots old griefs,
yet still they cling to me,
Like ivy gripping hard
to fading memory.
>
But time,
won’t dissolve
what’s relevant,
while the rest drifts off.
<
Thus pain becomes the seed
of what I must become,
And I am carried on,
as rivers are, by storms.
#vss365
yet still they cling to me,
Like ivy gripping hard
to fading memory.
>
But time,
won’t dissolve
what’s relevant,
while the rest drifts off.
<
Thus pain becomes the seed
of what I must become,
And I am carried on,
as rivers are, by storms.
#vss365
November 24, 2025 at 9:47 PM
The wind unroots old griefs,
yet still they cling to me,
Like ivy gripping hard
to fading memory.
>
But time,
won’t dissolve
what’s relevant,
while the rest drifts off.
<
Thus pain becomes the seed
of what I must become,
And I am carried on,
as rivers are, by storms.
#vss365
yet still they cling to me,
Like ivy gripping hard
to fading memory.
>
But time,
won’t dissolve
what’s relevant,
while the rest drifts off.
<
Thus pain becomes the seed
of what I must become,
And I am carried on,
as rivers are, by storms.
#vss365
Poem 2 - The Held Tongue
... as lichen on the age-
worn wall where secrets gather like the dew
that settles on the meadow grass at dawn,
each drop a word withheld, each bead a true
and relevant confession never drawn
into the light ...
#vss365 #poetry
... as lichen on the age-
worn wall where secrets gather like the dew
that settles on the meadow grass at dawn,
each drop a word withheld, each bead a true
and relevant confession never drawn
into the light ...
#vss365 #poetry
SURFACE & SKIN
www.greachan.com
November 24, 2025 at 3:55 PM
Shhhh
The tongue rests quiet, pressed like leaf to stone,
a muscle learning stillness, learning weight,
perhaps it holds what's better left unknown,
what's relevant to grief but not to fate.
Like rivers pausing at the waterfall's edge,
the mouth becomes a garden, silence its hedge.
#vss365
The tongue rests quiet, pressed like leaf to stone,
a muscle learning stillness, learning weight,
perhaps it holds what's better left unknown,
what's relevant to grief but not to fate.
Like rivers pausing at the waterfall's edge,
the mouth becomes a garden, silence its hedge.
#vss365
November 24, 2025 at 3:18 PM
Shhhh
The tongue rests quiet, pressed like leaf to stone,
a muscle learning stillness, learning weight,
perhaps it holds what's better left unknown,
what's relevant to grief but not to fate.
Like rivers pausing at the waterfall's edge,
the mouth becomes a garden, silence its hedge.
#vss365
The tongue rests quiet, pressed like leaf to stone,
a muscle learning stillness, learning weight,
perhaps it holds what's better left unknown,
what's relevant to grief but not to fate.
Like rivers pausing at the waterfall's edge,
the mouth becomes a garden, silence its hedge.
#vss365
That sometimes silence is the best and most eloquent reply.
November 23, 2025 at 5:48 PM
That sometimes silence is the best and most eloquent reply.
... peace is not a thing that must be found ...
In others' eyes, nor in their arms' embrace,
But in the achievable estate of grace
That springs like moss on stones no foot has pressed,
Where solitude itself becomes a nest.
#vss365
#poetry
In others' eyes, nor in their arms' embrace,
But in the achievable estate of grace
That springs like moss on stones no foot has pressed,
Where solitude itself becomes a nest.
#vss365
#poetry
A universe of one
www.greachan.com
November 23, 2025 at 4:20 PM
Pneuma
Consider the lung's cathedral space
where air becomes intention; not yet word, not yet reply,
not yet the yes or no, but poised in grace
as dawn is poised above the sleeping field, as seed within its husk must lie.
1/2
#poetry
Consider the lung's cathedral space
where air becomes intention; not yet word, not yet reply,
not yet the yes or no, but poised in grace
as dawn is poised above the sleeping field, as seed within its husk must lie.
1/2
#poetry
SURFACE & SKIN
www.greachan.com
November 23, 2025 at 2:19 PM
Pneuma
Consider the lung's cathedral space
where air becomes intention; not yet word, not yet reply,
not yet the yes or no, but poised in grace
as dawn is poised above the sleeping field, as seed within its husk must lie.
1/2
#poetry
Consider the lung's cathedral space
where air becomes intention; not yet word, not yet reply,
not yet the yes or no, but poised in grace
as dawn is poised above the sleeping field, as seed within its husk must lie.
1/2
#poetry
What moves through you
moved through them:
the swallowed stories,
the edited histories,
silence
running red and faithful
through every generation,
pulse by quiet pulse.
#poetry
#AnatomyOfSilence
moved through them:
the swallowed stories,
the edited histories,
silence
running red and faithful
through every generation,
pulse by quiet pulse.
#poetry
#AnatomyOfSilence
November 23, 2025 at 8:10 AM
What moves through you
moved through them:
the swallowed stories,
the edited histories,
silence
running red and faithful
through every generation,
pulse by quiet pulse.
#poetry
#AnatomyOfSilence
moved through them:
the swallowed stories,
the edited histories,
silence
running red and faithful
through every generation,
pulse by quiet pulse.
#poetry
#AnatomyOfSilence
The quiet at the corner of the eye,
not tears, but the place just before them,
where the muscle holds
and learns the measurable weight
of not letting go.
The body practicing a stillness
it will need later.
#vss365
#AnatomyOfSilence
not tears, but the place just before them,
where the muscle holds
and learns the measurable weight
of not letting go.
The body practicing a stillness
it will need later.
#vss365
#AnatomyOfSilence
November 23, 2025 at 8:08 AM
The quiet at the corner of the eye,
not tears, but the place just before them,
where the muscle holds
and learns the measurable weight
of not letting go.
The body practicing a stillness
it will need later.
#vss365
#AnatomyOfSilence
not tears, but the place just before them,
where the muscle holds
and learns the measurable weight
of not letting go.
The body practicing a stillness
it will need later.
#vss365
#AnatomyOfSilence
I’m painting again…
The circle watches,
still and whole,
while brushstrokes flirt
in measured breath;
The line, a thread of
will made visible,
intention piercing through
the field’s vast depth.
1/2
The circle watches,
still and whole,
while brushstrokes flirt
in measured breath;
The line, a thread of
will made visible,
intention piercing through
the field’s vast depth.
1/2
November 22, 2025 at 10:33 AM
I’m painting again…
The circle watches,
still and whole,
while brushstrokes flirt
in measured breath;
The line, a thread of
will made visible,
intention piercing through
the field’s vast depth.
1/2
The circle watches,
still and whole,
while brushstrokes flirt
in measured breath;
The line, a thread of
will made visible,
intention piercing through
the field’s vast depth.
1/2
She walks outside and weeps, but who could know?
For thy soft veil transmutes her tears to dew,
Makes sorrow seem the weather’s common gift,
And renders all her measurable grief new.
#vss365 #poetry #Ireland
For thy soft veil transmutes her tears to dew,
Makes sorrow seem the weather’s common gift,
And renders all her measurable grief new.
#vss365 #poetry #Ireland
Mist
www.greachan.com
November 22, 2025 at 9:54 AM
The church bell tolls soft-
muffled through the white,
As if
the very air
has turned to wool,
And Heaven stoops
to touch my mortal sight.
muffled through the white,
As if
the very air
has turned to wool,
And Heaven stoops
to touch my mortal sight.
In such heavy fog
there is a tender grace,
That tears may fall
and leave no bitter trace.
For my wet face
is but the morning’s face,
And pain is hid
within her misty dress.
there is a tender grace,
That tears may fall
and leave no bitter trace.
For my wet face
is but the morning’s face,
And pain is hid
within her misty dress.
November 22, 2025 at 9:11 AM
The church bell tolls soft-
muffled through the white,
As if
the very air
has turned to wool,
And Heaven stoops
to touch my mortal sight.
muffled through the white,
As if
the very air
has turned to wool,
And Heaven stoops
to touch my mortal sight.
In such heavy fog
there is a tender grace,
That tears may fall
and leave no bitter trace.
For my wet face
is but the morning’s face,
And pain is hid
within her misty dress.
there is a tender grace,
That tears may fall
and leave no bitter trace.
For my wet face
is but the morning’s face,
And pain is hid
within her misty dress.
November 22, 2025 at 8:59 AM
In such heavy fog
there is a tender grace,
That tears may fall
and leave no bitter trace.
For my wet face
is but the morning’s face,
And pain is hid
within her misty dress.
there is a tender grace,
That tears may fall
and leave no bitter trace.
For my wet face
is but the morning’s face,
And pain is hid
within her misty dress.
So does the bulb entombed in winter's keep,
Wrapped in its papery shroud of patient brown,
Store up its golden fire whilst frost lies deep,
And all the garden's glory tumbles down;
1/2
#vss365
Wrapped in its papery shroud of patient brown,
Store up its golden fire whilst frost lies deep,
And all the garden's glory tumbles down;
1/2
#vss365
Waiting
www.greachan.com
November 21, 2025 at 11:02 AM
So does the bulb entombed in winter's keep,
Wrapped in its papery shroud of patient brown,
Store up its golden fire whilst frost lies deep,
And all the garden's glory tumbles down;
1/2
#vss365
Wrapped in its papery shroud of patient brown,
Store up its golden fire whilst frost lies deep,
And all the garden's glory tumbles down;
1/2
#vss365
Just let me lie here patient as the land
That trusts the sun though blizzards blind its face,
That knows the rose is coded in the strands
Of all the things that winter can't erase.
#poetry
That trusts the sun though blizzards blind its face,
That knows the rose is coded in the strands
Of all the things that winter can't erase.
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 10:54 AM
Just let me lie here patient as the land
That trusts the sun though blizzards blind its face,
That knows the rose is coded in the strands
Of all the things that winter can't erase.
#poetry
That trusts the sun though blizzards blind its face,
That knows the rose is coded in the strands
Of all the things that winter can't erase.
#poetry
Beneath the frost,
specific dreams unfold!
The crocus sees
its purple pierce the cold,
The acorn swells
with oakwood yet unborn,
Each grain of wheat
imagines fields of corn.
They sleep in earth’s
dark womb and prophesy
The green
resurrection of the sky.
#vss365
#poetry
specific dreams unfold!
The crocus sees
its purple pierce the cold,
The acorn swells
with oakwood yet unborn,
Each grain of wheat
imagines fields of corn.
They sleep in earth’s
dark womb and prophesy
The green
resurrection of the sky.
#vss365
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 9:36 AM
The starling’s song
dissolves
in evening air.
And I see now,
the branch is bare.
The river carves
her stone
with patient silt.
Reality is
her rise must wilt.
I am
No longer wrestling
what the seasons bring,
But rain and root and
every breathing thing.
#vss365
dissolves
in evening air.
And I see now,
the branch is bare.
The river carves
her stone
with patient silt.
Reality is
her rise must wilt.
I am
No longer wrestling
what the seasons bring,
But rain and root and
every breathing thing.
#vss365
November 18, 2025 at 10:27 PM
The starling’s song
dissolves
in evening air.
And I see now,
the branch is bare.
The river carves
her stone
with patient silt.
Reality is
her rise must wilt.
I am
No longer wrestling
what the seasons bring,
But rain and root and
every breathing thing.
#vss365
dissolves
in evening air.
And I see now,
the branch is bare.
The river carves
her stone
with patient silt.
Reality is
her rise must wilt.
I am
No longer wrestling
what the seasons bring,
But rain and root and
every breathing thing.
#vss365
Perhaps the river
doesn’t ask the stone
Why it should smooth
its edges as it flows.
Perhaps the sun
has always simply shone
On thorn and rose alike,
because it knows
That grace, like spring,
needs no reason to return,
And love, like fire,
simply exists to burn.
#poetry
doesn’t ask the stone
Why it should smooth
its edges as it flows.
Perhaps the sun
has always simply shone
On thorn and rose alike,
because it knows
That grace, like spring,
needs no reason to return,
And love, like fire,
simply exists to burn.
#poetry
November 16, 2025 at 10:32 PM
Perhaps the river
doesn’t ask the stone
Why it should smooth
its edges as it flows.
Perhaps the sun
has always simply shone
On thorn and rose alike,
because it knows
That grace, like spring,
needs no reason to return,
And love, like fire,
simply exists to burn.
#poetry
doesn’t ask the stone
Why it should smooth
its edges as it flows.
Perhaps the sun
has always simply shone
On thorn and rose alike,
because it knows
That grace, like spring,
needs no reason to return,
And love, like fire,
simply exists to burn.
#poetry
Why would the Maker
of the mountain’s spine,
the One who paints
the dawn in rose and gold,
reach down through
infinite design
to lift a broken sparrow
from the cold?
#poetry
of the mountain’s spine,
the One who paints
the dawn in rose and gold,
reach down through
infinite design
to lift a broken sparrow
from the cold?
#poetry
November 16, 2025 at 10:18 PM
Why would the Maker
of the mountain’s spine,
the One who paints
the dawn in rose and gold,
reach down through
infinite design
to lift a broken sparrow
from the cold?
#poetry
of the mountain’s spine,
the One who paints
the dawn in rose and gold,
reach down through
infinite design
to lift a broken sparrow
from the cold?
#poetry
Rain!
The rain descends; a cold conundrum pressed
Against my skin, yet roots drink deep below.
What shivers through my bones becomes the blessed
Necessity that makes the green things grow.
#vss365
The rain descends; a cold conundrum pressed
Against my skin, yet roots drink deep below.
What shivers through my bones becomes the blessed
Necessity that makes the green things grow.
#vss365
September 30, 2025 at 7:27 PM
Rain!
The rain descends; a cold conundrum pressed
Against my skin, yet roots drink deep below.
What shivers through my bones becomes the blessed
Necessity that makes the green things grow.
#vss365
The rain descends; a cold conundrum pressed
Against my skin, yet roots drink deep below.
What shivers through my bones becomes the blessed
Necessity that makes the green things grow.
#vss365