chairs;
and, I remember, love;
all else was there,
and did not need to name itself.
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This rose – red, scented, rich, without price –
I cannot hear what it says. And yet…is it watching me?it does not blink. And yet…is it urging me to action?it gives no sign. And yet…this rose – so gloriously – is…so does it know all this?is it beyond all this?for while I watch itand wait for an answerI know myself more.perhaps the roseis not…
I started a poem with a serious intent…
I’d barely writ a line so fine, when the poem turned to me,looked me in the eye and ear, and laughed demonic-lee,pranced around me, singing, boo! you can’t catch me!ain’t no rules nor grammar for the boldheart and the free!race you round the chocabloc, poetic chairbound fatty!you’re just like every pompous poet, thinking always that…
flutter by,
no crimeto rhymeor sinto grin
On the top unlooked-at shelf
there it was.A tidy, self-effacing, neat and ordered pileof mother’s ironing– after how many years? –of those seldom used, worn almost to holes, frayed,white things, for the house and family:their worn yet serviceable hems and stitchingironed with a jeweller’s perfection…and suddenly the living and the deadwere intimate and closer than any sought or unsought sentiment,and…
I’d known her all my life,
night and dayyet when last night I lay down to sleepI heard myself sayas if to someone else,what a splendid lady,I wish I’d known her better
Those who’ve seen one, all give differing accounts;
But the collected book of sightings –that’s hairs on the back of the neck stuff.One detail, though, they all agree– it came at just the right time;although they did not know it at the time;but time brought truth; as truth brought time.The place they saw it– now that was surely a surprise;and so they wonderhow…