You, in a speedy coat, urge the constellations
of your past into hollow echoes.
I speak of Brazil & Charleston & the tented houses
that sprang up downtown.
I talk about preachers & love poems.
I throw in a bite of silence like a pause
in a slow served meal..
I fling on an army jacket & have you feel
the soft lining,
I am talking about light weight clothing
and the way coconuts fall and float
in the vacation pool.
This is a good year for oranges,
but you are enumerating again
on paychecks, pay outs, and paybacks.
We are supposed to be firming up
our travel plans.
but people stop me on the street to ask
if I am lost.
You are worrying bits of the past
into our possible future
and I am running out of things to say.
If you are listening to our song
some place far back in your mind,
I am standing on a scaffold with a crayon.
I am swinging back and forth between believing
in the magic of foam & the salt in old wounds.
And it is winter time. Listen, it is winter time.
Again!
The learned Mr. Hart has hit it on the head again. What sets this--and your writing as a body--above the common run of writers is the ability to take the seemingly everyday and commonplace and intertwine it with the mysteries of the universe that exist out there in the ether. That is the skill of the angels, the province of magicians.
The learned Mr. Hart has hit it on the head again. What sets this--and your writing as a body--above the common run of writers is the ability to take the seemingly everyday and commonplace and intertwine it with the mysteries of the universe that exist out there in the ether. That is the skill of the angels, the province of magicians.
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I live in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. Although my passion is poetry, I recently published a novel called, Women of the Round Tabl.. more..