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This is one of a collection of poems I wrote for, and about, my mother. She died in 1998 at the age of 89, fully alert, just worn out.
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My nephew, a contemporary in age, was killed in a car accident when I was a teenager. It was the first time I really faced death up close. It was also..
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Shred of cloth
washed soft
color running to color
barbed wire casualty
snagged-flag marker
strumming two o'clock wind
whipping top fence strand ..
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Blue-green day
sprinkled down, pressed
by Thursday's temper-tantrum weather.
Breezes,
new as Adam's first breath,
squeak across
leaves, grass,..
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Intro to possible short story, never completed.
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There is no
word for her that stands seperate,
he-she, he-her, man-woman,
male-female.
In the beginning
it takes two.
According to rough vernacu..
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The progression of a boomer, techno-less poet.
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One of the poems included in my chapbook "Right Hand Lane," a collection of work on rural life.
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Dr. Welch was my professor for Creative Writing. I would gladly sit at his feet for every class he could teach. He is a widely published Nebraska poet..
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Bardish playing
pipes calling
far down behind
the wind
twining---weaving mist
tendrils in wild
hair---blowing---flowing
off the sea
down cragg..
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