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Today,
Even in Poetry,Some things when saidShould not be said,So vile, they really be,And still, are daredTo be called by some,Modern poetry.We’re living in a quicksand world,Where there is no respect,Where foolishly,We think we’re free,To write and say, no matter what,Then call it, poetry
What do our eyes see in Another
Distraction, attraction, love?Yes, the eyes may be the silent portals,That convey unknowing mortals,To even deeper things than love.
A precious Gift to the senses,
Comparable, to falling in loveThat mostly have,Unforgettable and wonderful,Consequences.
Groping in the Dark,
Looking for the Light,That does not come,Thinking about you, loveAbout all of life,That I never correctly summed up,Good and Evil, dancing in the sun,And you, gone forever,As the instants of my life,Seem to drink themselves upIn their own passing time,While the Sun once more sets,Without making a sound……
Trying to force a poem,
You cannot force something,So intimately tiedTo inspiration, feelingThat is and isn’t you.Mystery surrounds us,And Poetry, too,No answersFor most everything,We do.
My whole day is spent in Poetry
Rhymes that come and go,Mysteriously,Some might say that that’sA total waste of time!But for me,As vital as the air I breath,Since Poetry is,The life that’s left,In me,And joyfully existsExtemporaneouly.