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Archive 2
August, 2013


Two Short Verses From Ashley Bovan

PictureAshley Bovan

   



Whatever It Is


    whatever it is
    that holds the sky together
    got ripped open
    and the expected deluge
    was more of a rebirth
‐a heaviness
 from the ground upwards‐
breaking these leftovers
from winter
‐memories of memories
that are now things‐
Shoulders shimmy
The beat goes slow
quarter tempo
Your organza dress
The mystery

    Such a Bothersome Color

    Give me a good black.
    Give me a solid white.
    Gray is so namby‐pamby;
    useless as a friend,
    too soft to give a good kicking.

    At night,
    when I lie down,
    I like to know where I stand.
    I keep a pistol under my pillow.


Read the poetry of Ashley Bovan
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Now on VerseWrights: Poet Frank Watson

PictureFrank Watson


    The Distant Bells

    Night whimpers its last gasp
    with the smoke that lingers
    from solo chimneys
    reflected in the moonlit sky.

                        Breath chokes on nighttime mist,
                        harbinger of impending rain,
                        a funeral procession,
                        the notes to a blues night.

                        My voice is damp;
                        I listen to the distant bells
                        beneath a roof that offers thin shelter

                        from the coming storm.

                        She runs her hands

                        she runs her hands
                        along the poppy field
                        as if in an opium haze

Frank Watson was born in Venice, California and now lives in New York City. He enjoys literature, art, calligraphy, history, jazz, international culture, and travel. His books include Fragments: poetry, ancient & modern (editor), One Hundred Leaves: a new, annotated translation of the Hyakunin Isshu (editor and translator), and The dVerse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry (editor). His work has also appeared in Rosebud and Bora literary magazines. Frank shares his work on his poetry blog (www.followtheblueflute.com) and @FollowBlueFlute, his Twitter account. Read.

"The Chase," A New Poem From Cheryl Snell

PictureCheryl Snell
  

   


The Chase


    A man rounds the corner, zigzag
    shadow reaching for the woman
    who steps out of it.
 
            He’s a late-comer, can’t catch up
            to the lady strolling through dusk
            that blazed gold only this morning.
 
            He’d pulled the quilt over his head,
            begged the clock for ten more minutes
            but she’d already pitched forward
            into events no one can plan for.
 
            Along straggling streets that will never
            connect them, the woman moves on.
            Behind her, the man elbows through
            the crush, searching all the places
            where a door is left ajar.
 
            A wedge of light spills onto steps
            falling from the house into the hooded evening.
            He’d have followed her the way she wanted,
            but night curves without warning, the stars
            do not touch, the road stretches down to the sea.


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"The Verdict" From Natalie Keller

Picture
Natalie Keller





The Verdict


She came as if from a great cloud,
her hair a mass of constellations,
her skin a milky hue.
It was morning time, and the mortals
were just waking -
            pouring their coffee, ironing their shirts,
            and reading their newspapers.
            She looked upon them like a teacher
            might look upon a misguided student,
            with distaste and with remorse,
            because they had, after all, missed
            the entire point,
            and she didn’t feel like explaining
            it all over again.
            She knew that with a touch of her hand
            their world would disintegrate into nothing,
            but she was wise, the cloud woman,
            and understood the very cruelest punishment
            was to let them be,
            so she turned and vanished back
            into the sky from whence she came,
            leaving them to their
            lives and their
            ironing boards


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A Lyric Spark From Janet Aalfs

Picture
Janet Aalfs
   

   



One Spark

   the silence from within

    the generator humming

    the radio voice the ringside cheers



                        one spark defies the herd

                        the murderous circuit

                        sputters then



                        one breath that dares

                        the bolt to strike

                        the shadow-hand of white



                        supremacy the electric chair

                        its killing juice to quit

                        one surge that flips



                        the breaker frees

                        the light the many share

                        incites the courage to step



                        to soothe the wounded ground

                        to unknot the twisted tongue

                        to right the unspeakable wrong



                        one spark ignites

                        the silence from within

                        where truth begins


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A New Poem from Kelli Russell Agodon

PictureKelli Russell Agodon


   


If I Ever Mistake You For a Poem

    No body was ever composed
    from words, not the hipsway

                of verse, the iambic beat of a heart.
                Yet inside you, a sestina

                of arteries, the villanelle of villi,
                sonnets between your shoulder                                 blades.

                If I were more obsessive I’d follow
                the alliteration of age spots across

                your arms. But I have exchanged
                my microscope for a stethoscope

                as I want to listen inside you, past
                your repetition, your free verse of                             skin. 

                How easy it is to fall for your internal
                organs.  Your arrhythmia is                                         charming 

                hidden in the ballad of body,
                your gurgling stanzas, your lyric sigh.


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From Paul Sands: "Blue Sky Drinking"

Picture
Paul Sands



   

Blue Sky Drinking

    Coltrane may be riding with me
    but these blues are different
    waves of linseed breathing
                into the pastel edges and rising
                    through
                the cocaine lines scratched into
                a deeper hue
                and under this hullaballoo
                I drive to the water past the
                sanitised lies of tarmac and brick
                until I can sit on the banks and
                choke on a pig in a poke
                as my roast crumbles and drowns
                in the foam round but from then
                three whole hours with no human
                sound where I watch the fowl
                ketch downstream with their
                downy cargo pursued sometimes
                by the spreading chevron of
                an earlier brood that breaks
                in two the single mirrored cloud
                audience to the bovine
                students of Constable’s bucolic
                porn as slivered fry, like shards of
                    ice,
                roll in the shallows of this blissful
                silence. I have no need for words
                even for the carrion, mistaken from
                far as  sofa or chair, a simple nod
                will suffice while the damsels dance
                and date and die the violaceous
                thistle downed and crowned shouts
                “gather round” to the birds and the
                bees
                and I half expect to see a mole and
                rat sculling with a hamper
                astern and I check the arm of the
                    yard
                and discern never to early for a cold
                one
                after all it’s only self preservation
                but not before a bus flashes by
                screeches and cries as the driver
                    waves
                and flagellates her empty
                seats for it’s now a buzz
                so full it is of wasps
                and bees


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Marie Anzalone: "black hair and sapphire"

Picture
Marie Anzalone

  black hair and                     sapphire


  You were cruel, but not in
ways
  more measurable than our peers
  and, well, cruelty was a code of
           living anyway.
 
            You were the only one then
            I wished had seen past my
            uncoolness, my non-cruelty,
            an absence where a cigarette
            should be,
 
            legs too long and clothes nowhere
            near anything resembling style,
            and a mind too interested
            in the content of books
            for anyone's friends.
 
            Would it have been different
            had it been you, not the football
            player my dad wanted me seen with,
            that took my virginity?
            I wanted you more.
 
            How does an invisible girl speak,
            even now?
 
            You should have left that place, too.
            Anger is too high a risk factor
            for those of us drawn with too much
            to fill the stingy space allotted
            on a page that expectation has already
            outlined for us in shades
            of dull mining town
            desolation gray.
 
            we bled outside of the lines.
 
            when do those roles of "too good"
            and "not good enough," reverse?
 
            I smiled to learn that you
            became a bodybuilder who loved
                   ABBA.
            Yes, I thought, that fits the fuck you
                    world
            Paulie I knew.
 
            I wished I had told you
            the lead in my first novel, the one I
            grew too ashamed to finish-
 
            she had your black hair and sapphire
            eyes. It was the only voice I ever knew
            how to speak to you with.
 
            for Paul, 1975-2013


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Dan Shawn Gives Us A Little Verse to Digest

Picture
Dan Shawn
   




Space Food

    i’m the guy
    who labours
    late into the night
    to invent the
    synthetic meat
 
                        you know
                        the kind that grows on
                        Petri dishes
 
                        Big Science
                        has this quest
                        to replace
                        the cow and pig
                        with cells
                        that crawl about
                        like grains of rice
                        on agar
 
                        we'll herd them
                        like pink worms and
                        train them
                        not to invade your liver
 
                        don't forget to wash your hands
                        it smells “down there"


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From Poet Harriet Shenkman, "Rio Uncle"

PictureHarriet Shenkman






        Rio Uncle
 
                    Sugar Loaf rose above the sea, San Cristo
                    stretching his arms to bless the city at dusk.
 
                    My uncle escaped to Rio, hid out in
                    Copacabana, disguised as a poet, wanted
                    for killing a raiding Cossack with a rock.
 
                    He wore a white suit, spectator shoes,
                    a handkerchief in his breast pocket.
                    Married a woman who threw a plate
 
                    of feijoada across the table at him. Came
                    to Brooklyn, left pee on our toilet seat,
                    brought me a doll with blinking eyelids.
 
                    I looked into her trusting eyes, watched
                    her lashes close over lacquered cheeks,
                    lulled her to sleep as a mother would.
 
                    Uncle died an undecorated hero, an
                    unread poet, unloved by a woman,
                    his only triumphs, the dead Cossack
                    and my doll with blinking eyelids.


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We Welcome Poet Shan Ellis To VerseWrights

PictureShan Ellis

 


When nights cool


  Dying day in grey light
  hued sky on bruised lips,
  enlightened by a flicker-
  finger traced around lines of laughter.

                Pause, anticipation of steady breath,
                in moment post-heat,
                where words are void
                but silence sings vividly 
                sending shivers down supine spine.

                Darkness undresses, gets into bed
                warming buried bones,
                languidly the lips brush, explore,
                rekindle a phoenix flame
                in these ashen nights, that grew so cold.


Shan Ellis is a freelance journalist, mother, and writer working in the East of England, currently for the Eastern Daily Press and Norwich evening news.  A published author and poet, she is passionate about creativity, positive parenting, politics and real ale. She is a proud contributor to www.autismdailynewscast.com and maintains three online blogs, including Musings and Smatterings at www.repressedsoul.wordpress.com."Poems," she states,"are an occasional adventure, like making marmalade…" Read.


A Villanelle from Poet Rhonda L. Brockmeyer

PictureRhonda L. Brockmeyer





Villanelle: Within These Hands
☊

Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands
Cautious, we walked upon this place
Faint beats this heart within these hands

To touch foot upon sacred lands
Was nothing short of seeing grace
Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands

Blindly, we feel the flowered strands
Tears, down their petals pure, did trace
Faint beats this heart within these hands

Blackness wrapped Life with deadly bands
Nature’s breath, Death came to replace
Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands

Life lost from shore to hinterlands
Destruction reigned Life’s haunted space
Faint beats this heart within these hands

The poets sung out their demands!
The web undid the interlace
Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands

Screaming voices shout reprimands
To speak, ruins what we can’t replace…
Turquoise seas edged in driftwood sands
Faint beats this heart within these hands.


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"Asperger," A New Poem From Leslie Philibert

Picture
Leslie Philibert



    Asperger

  
    an island full of shapes
    patterns of bricks and numbers
    and the thin voice of a bird

              lost on a strange planet; so start again
              and disregard all the faces
              that bend under order, just

              watch your own dancing hands,
              listen to your own stolen voice,
              you are deep in your own sense, underground

              until the world implodes,
              a puzzle flying, the lines crossed;
              a broken window full of stars.

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jacob erin-cilberto's "Reality Show"

Picture
jacob erin-cilberto





Reality Show


you taught me how to tragedy---
i learned that spontaneous storms
and unexpected death of hearts
                preempt love
                as the screen of feelings
                becomes enveloped in nothingness

                and those trees left lying in the back                     yard
                of our dreams
                are the uprooted causes of the                             stripped bark
                of existence
                that leaves us vulnerable
                to that which shows up on

                no radar screen
                but funnels itself deep within

                you taught me how to tragedy
                and now i am getting so good at it

                i feel like Thor
                in a room full of thunder
                clapping at his misfortunes...


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From Carl Sharpe, "grief, like children"

PictureCarl Sharpe




  
grief, like children ☊

sorrows tap-tap on the window glass
when shadows cool the autumn dusk
I have closed the night. you may not come in
so it is with them--persistent and gentle

and used to getting their way, like a child
with sad face who taps on your knee.
read, look away, tell him later, later,
but the rhythm and the chant say now

and you off-to-bed him in the darkened room
and he does not sleep, and you do not sleep,
for you have succumbed, let memory in
and you do not sleep, and cannot sleep again


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The Latest Poem From Danielle Favorite

Picture
Danielle Favorite

   



a sexual discovery

    I fractured the moon and drank
    its secret milk the night
    I first saw my naked self
    in my mother's full-length mirror:

                                          pale and dark-eyed,
                                          whispered light,
                                          white pinpoint pupil,
                                          tethered and
                                            star-bright.

                                Ribs are for counting,
                                a spine for arching
                                and lips for peeling
                                my name from your
                                            tongue.

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New On VerseWrights, Poet Roseville Nidea

Picture
Roseville Nidea

   



Absurdity

    Foolish I was, to have
    Looked in the mirror of your soul
    Dove into your core
    Swayed into your sweet song

                    Foolish I was, to have
                    Made myself a crystalline
                    Let you conquer my domain
                    Allowed you to marry my mind

                                Now, all that foolishness
                                All that absurdity of mine
                                Are bringing me back on
                                the brink
                                On the brink of endless
                                    darkness

                    Foolish I was, to have
                    Once more believed
                    In Odysseus and Penelope

                                I forgot to remember
                                That love --
                                Love seldom stays.


Roseville Nidea, is an aspiring poet from the Philippines who works as a content article writer. Her professional articles are published on different major websites under the company name of her client. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies published in Canada and in USA, including On The Words of Love (2012), Reflections on Blue Planet, I - IV (2012), Angels Cried (2013), A Haiku Treasury (2013), The Squire, Vol. 3: Seasons Anthology, and In Our Own Words (2013). Creating an internal and external balance between rationality and sensibility, she states, often leads her to seek the refuge of her notebook and pen. Read.


From Beth Winter: A "Fantasy in Ballad Measure"

Picture
Beth Winter
  




Portal

    More distant than the timber tall,
    beyond the ancient elms,
    examine near each garden wall
    to spy the hidden realms.

            Engraved in mossy common stone
            whose seams defy the wind,
            a score once set by wizened crone
            marks where dimensions bend.

            When gloam engulfs the waning light,
            when Luna hides his eyes,
            when great Orion guards the night
            in clearest star-flush skies,

            an eastern breeze might stir the glade,
            the rune might shimmer-shine
            as powers secret are conveyed
            when elements align.

            The stonework might dissolve to air,
            the bonds may melt to mists,
            then gently absent of fanfare
            a windowed world persists.

            For magic hides this elven land
            as soil and sea recede
            with wonders few observe firsthand
            where solace is decreed.

            Should fortune lead you to this dell
            and factors fit to place,
            let dusk invoke its artful spell
            then bask in elven grace.


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Michele Shaw's Latest: "Drift"

Picture
Michele Shaw
   




Drift

    you’re a thousand little pieces
    I only asked for one
    a speck for my pocket
    the sun hidden in my hand

                but each day another piece disappears
                evaporates before my eyes
                cell by cell, I see it
                I blink and lose more

                it is slow torture of the worst kind
                the silence so deep
                and sharp
                and unbearable
                I’m helpless and inadequate

                the weight of my pocket
                nearly topples me
                as I flip it inside out
                knowing its emptiness pulls me down

                futile grabs choke my strength
                they siphon my love
                they leave me breathless
                watching the last bits of you

                drift


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A "Love Poem" from Poet Mark MacDonald

PictureMark MacDonald




  


Your Grandfather's Love Song

        Some less than you expected in your blush
        when you read Rossetti and Sidney each day
        hunkered in the orange and brown afghan

        that you took from your grandmother’s parlor--
        without your mother’s permission—the night
        that frail and cherubic Nana passed away.

        Nor even the random and frolicsome
        handfuls of wildflowers Adam,
        your very first beau, would gather along

        the roadside and deliver to you wrapped
        in last Friday’s newspaper, together
        with coffee and Danish, while you lingered

        in bed with the symphonies of love on
        Sunday afternoons wrapped in the sheets
        of April. Nothing so comforting

        nor quite so capricious as these from my hands
        my Beloved—not the faded wool of past
        Thanksgiving dinners, nor the flitting bird

        of Spring and his fingers quick with daisies,
        bindweed and larkspur from me. But only
        the pile of coal I shoveled into

        the furnace this morning; this envelope
        of dollars and coins so that Pat might have
        her shoes—this small sweet cup of tea for you.


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Poet Peter Wilkin Now on VerseWrights

Picture
Peter Wilkin


  



Athanasia

    It was billed as a memorial.
    We would all make quiches
    and puddings, bring bottles
    of fine wines and photographs
    of her when she was younger.
                    There would be poems
                    to celebrate her existence
                    and to express our sadness.
                    In between we would gaze
                    out of her drawing room window
                    at green hills, canal boats and horses
                    cantering in fields of buttercups.
                    And in the gaps between betweens
                    we would talk of work, holidays,
                    even relate anecdotes unconnected
                    to her in any familiar way.
                    Some of us would shed tears,
                    others would hold them back
                    for fear of being seen.
                    All of us would raise a glass
                    to her beauty and vow
                    that we would do this again,
                    perhaps towards the year’s end.
                    We did all of these things
                    and much more …
                    but what we really wanted
                    and expected if we’re honest
                    was to see her smiling softly
                    as she slowly descended those stairs.


Peter Wilkin is a retired psychotherapist living in Deepest West Yorkshire. He has had a number of poems published in various anthologies and his poem ‘Cinders’ won the 2012 M R Mathias Poetry Contest. He is a member of the Grass Roots Poetry Group, whose anthology Petrichor Rising has just been published by Aquillrelle. He is also co-author of Briannca and the Crystal Dragons, a children’s fantasy novel published by Chiaroscuro books earlier this year. Read.


From Poet Jorge Davis: "The Obstructionist"

PictureJorge Davis


   



The Obstructionist

    I sat there holding, and rubbing
    my larynx, trying perhaps to find
    a word in there. But something
    shut me down. And the word lay
trapped. And they began to pile up.
All the while this extraordinary
woman kept looking at me; kicking
the table leg with her biker boots
(and I know this because I have a
pair just like them: sexy.)  And
the vibrations originating from those
leather boots only exacerbated my
condition. And she grew frustrated,
and left; left me there, rubbing
my larynx and wondering what
a doctor would say: You will need
immediate surgery; to remove that
middle finger lodged in your throat,
by the ex


Read the poetry of Jorge Davis
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A Poem From Julie Brooks Barbour

Picture
Julie Brooks Barbour






    The Bend and Rise of Streets

      The white inside wing of a gull
        gave brightness to the gray street this morning,
        fluttering between parked cars as I passed
 
        then the sudden rising up,
        the pivotal turn away from me.
        Wings open, dark eyes
 
        between that wingspan,
        the flight so certain and fluid
        I lost direction. I stuttered
 
        and slowed the car
        and shook off following,
        let memory be my compass
 
        in this bend and rise of streets.
        On this road, two stop signs
        then a right turn at the flashing signal.
 
        Up the steep hill. Another right
        at the gravel road. I could remember
        street names but my body recalls
 
        more easily the upward slope
        of a hill or the bend within
        a curved road. I lean and turn,
 
        a gull heading north
        for the summer.
        A car and a current.
 
        A path and a migratory pattern.
        Goldenrod and pine trees blur
        into gray bridges and roads.


Read the poetry of Julie Brooks Barbour
Read a profile of Julie Brooks Barbour



A New Poem From E. Michael Desilets

Picture
E. Michael Desilets

  



When we returned


    Mary Carton 45
   “No One To Welcome Me Home”
   was on the turntable
   but the record player
                        was unplugged and Peg
                        was eight miles away
                        in the Union ICU.
 
                        We might have tossed it
                        into that Sunshine Dairy crate
                        with the Deans and the Bings
                        and the Mitch Millers
                        and somebody likely
                        bought it for a quarter
                        at the yard sale.
 
                        Whatever we did
                        it ended up gone.
                        Right now it seems
                        we kept all the wrong things.


Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets
Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets


"Invisibility," From Foster Cameron Hunter

PictureFoster Cameron Hunter
      




Invisibility

        Encased
        behind a flesh mask
        I face you,
        funneled into an adobe
                            figurine.
                            I peer through
                            tinted windows above
                            full, sculpted lips.
                            I’m the puppeteer
                            inside.
 
                            You can’t see me.


Read the poetry of Foster Cameron Hunter
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Poet Ana Caballero Now On VerseWrights

PictureAna Caballero



   


Overdue Love Letter

    Minus the saliva on paper
    The hesitant comma
    Barely smeared
 
                Impatient still
                Signed and dated
                Sealed
 
                I offer every swerve
                Soft wrist and stiff neck
 
                Dear,
                This is my wet black ink

Ana Caballero was raised in Bogotá, Colombia, but has also lived in Boston, New York and especially Miami, where she met her future husband. They are now living back in Bogotá with son Lorenzo. She maintains a blog at www.thedrugstorenotebook.co where she posts her poetry and thoughts on books "as though it were my job." This is Ana's first time publishing her work. Read.


We Welcome Poet Christopher Sanderson to VerseWrights

Picture
Christopher Sanderson


   


Maitreya

    Droplets
    Of water
    On the leaves
    Of trees

                    The rains
                    Have been and gone
                    The pool’s surface
                    Is still

                    Listen
                    To the unhappy hounds
                    Listen
                    To the distant traffic

                    Listen
                    To the fish jumping
                    Listen
                    To the birdsong

                    Look
                    Towards the temple
                    Look
                    Through the gaps

                    Between the trees
                    Look
                    At the swaying branches
                    As you sit still

                    The regimentation
                    Is all mine
                    Nature gives me the tree
                    Faultlessly and at random

                    Feel the gentle breath
                    Hear the trickling water
                    Wait, for the time
                    To share conversation

                    Taste the fruit tea
                    Taste the scone
                    With jam
                    With maple syrup

                    Turn the pages
                    Of the beautiful book
                    Pay for entrance, and
                    Meditation CD

                    Ask about
                    Maitreya’s latest project
                    Did he visit Japan
                    During last winter

                    Stop by his crystal garden
                    Spend a few moments
                    On a wooden bench
                    With feet, on the floor


Christopher Sanderson (a.k.a. coastmoor) graduated with a MA in Creative Writing from Nottingham Trent University in 2006. Since that time he has facilitated creative writing workshops in Louth and Lincoln. The workshops have created the need to continuously read poetry, and prose. He writes that, "Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by." His poetry swings between sadness and joy, between love and loss, between portraits and landscapes, between form and freedom and between beauty and beauty. At his Blogspot site you can find Christopher's poem a day, and links to his other sites. Read.


Ray Sharp Gives us "hope"

Picture
Ray Sharp
    hope

    the difference
    is in your eyes
    beholder –
    i’m thinking
    of the astronomer
    again and how
                lives are pulled
                by forces
                and about what turns
                while I listen
                to sad songs
                from other planets
                and the storm
                blunderbussing
                around these walls
                that shelter
                us from
                too crazy –
                there are
                stars beyond
                this snowy world
                and          
                your mask
                is a thing with feathers
                too


Read the poetry of Ray Sharp
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