the poet babbled on; the brook,
dried up and long since dead.
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I love a poem that
as if you know the owner,settle into,wander around,stay a few days,return to visit,find a secret room,and be surprisedI love a poem thatyou can lovewithout wasting timeadmiring it
You reminded me, and I dug it out –
now you’ve reminded me and thank you –they know they have to stand with their back to the sunso, without thinking of you, butthinking of their future thinking about the pastthey make you stand facing the sunso you squint and screw your eyes up which is bad enoughwhile they take random advice from the other…
Today, and every day – someone booped!
An apology, a resignation of their tarnishedposition in our public life? Don’tmake me laugh…No – they grandstand, chest inflatedwith their moral worthiness –‘This is absolutely unacceptable…’implying, some minion… escaped my notice…of course would never countenance……torocaca! That’s exactly whatyou just did – accepted it…It’s another variation of the now familiarresponse to some organisation’s failing –don’t admit…
The throat smiled, that warm Spring evening;
but the guts soon shouted farewell.
It’s night. Across the Hudson River,
romantic: sprinkled in its wide white waywith office and apartment lights;wispy night clouds add their movement,setting off this jewelled velvet;in the mid-ground, a fire-launchthrows a high and spotlit fountainto assert that manmade beauty’s not forgotten,and citizens may share this high-rise paradise..The French, who have a knack for the poetic phrase,might pin down in words this…
Tell you what
if you love your neighbour as yourselfdeal?