I'd Said That
a Word Picture
time is it
where you are?
touched by love, all men become poets."
-- Plato, 400 B.C.
tried to grasp the sunset hour and hold the sun at
mountain's edge, to savor more the loveliness of
delicate light on field and hedge.
sweet the final fleeting moment, the subtle
radiance it throws, the way it touches a child's
face like a soft angelic halo glows.
now it's gone, the moment lost. But oh, what a
delicious sorrow ...
do not watch the door any longer ... or listen for
your footsteps ... but my expectant heart still
keeps the vigil...
no one is allowed my space to share ... Some times
I'll turn and think that you're still there...
saffron colored leaf, anchored by the twig that
held it close all summer, let loose and
so gently into a majestic dance with the autumn
breeze, tipping and swaying to the rhythm of the
whispering wind until it landed in the brown
I understood then it is not always the hanging on,
but sometimes it is the letting go.
between the waving grass of summer's breeze, we
strode together submerged up to our knees, by the
twisting strands of wildflower and grasses,
together we joined that year's wild dances...
friends are old and smelly, some of them are mostly
belly. None of them can see too good, I think their
teeth are made of wood. Grandpa's friends have lots
of wrinkles. When they smile their faces
the oak limbs, moon and stars, mosquitoes, bats,
and planet Mars---My small, green tent stood
placidly; but I was scared as I could be...
Tonight your little cheek is wet with glistening
And baby heartbreaks hurt as much as ours in later
years . . .
But, oh! my sweet, tomorrow when you waken with the
You'll find that sorrow's sped away and baby woes
Yet I who watch above you in that alchemy of
Know a deeper bit of heartache, for . . . 'twas I
who made you weep!
the poet belongs life in its full and absolute
entirety, not merely the beauty that men look
at, but the beauty that men listen to...Most
people become bankrupt through having invested
too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined
one's self over poetry is an honour.
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you need ideas first, we recommend
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