Poetry and Discussion

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.  (Robert Frost)
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The strength of the cello...

The strength of the cello,
the ration of a viola,
and the contention
of peace and chaos
in the bipolarity
of violins-
a string quartet cadence
for dimly lit coffins
on a college campus.

A scribbled regurgitation
of some illumination
which escaped the capture of words-
lies sloppy and dripping
like the hopes of secrets revealed.

Spirit's of men
who in a similar room
slowly died for a virtue-
resurrect in the pages of books.

But You- you Madman,
you Miser, you Lover-
Hunter of Silence,
Death Itself-
captured the breath of God.

The gentle passing...

The gentle passing of finger tips,
over reeds. All the colors.
The breeze in lullaby
under willows
a cool tenderness for
my heavy swallow,
And the majesty of falling sun
teases- as do lips,

not ee

the dark sky sighed
silent scintillations of stars
cast a net enfolding you in
the universe’s arms
on the night you were
light from nowhere glowed on snow
and there was
in the cold air
brittle with the weight of frozen light that
shone upon your entrance

An old man's voice...

An old man’s voice is poetry. The stanzas are designated by lung capacity and dementia. A march of accepting reluctance. Wrinkles and spots. He speaks with a limp, but a strong limp- falling or crawling again. His breaks are unorthodox- The silence grips your throat- you choke along. There is a woman- no doubt there must have been. Then unexpected- uncomfortable-perfect- the unmasking of a cold volta -birth- age- death.

Random images

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