Hog Which, Something, Is A Beginning - For Tom Gone Awandering, Somewhat Shakespherical
Haven't heard of, from you.
Are you OK or mighty fine?
Perhaps in love merely which
is why one escapes mortal time,
friends, especially such as I?
Or is it 'me'?
No matter the matter.
Wondering how, where.
And how fare you, farther flung.
Or me, the further sending these
unasked, unsought. Few to send
to who might care or at least be
bothered yet not required just
a basket to catch my froth enough
at this stage.
Sired upon rock and thus know
stones for suck, I am more that
one, not to inflate, in parable,
who sows seed upon rock.
Some roots may come but come
high wind or burning heat, well,
one gathers what can, what's
left, sees if something be woven
from strands perhaps become the
better farmer more patient the
more resigned by far for attempts
and fated reaping life's own rock.
But, not complaining.
Gonna, rather, go hog wild,
burst open, try make sense
pinky raised effetely to offend.
One can arrive at such a place
where one's no longer 'scaped
all this - those who consent -
who becomes arrives but willing
participant in inexorable awake
which as yet does not totality ken;
always the upended flames are
rushing, vortices assumed progress
an assumption only a wish but
sweetness, but tenderness for
some few beloved
things may steer,
may guide some,
stir us, even me,
One cannot be
sweet toward all
except in mind
the hog loves
but it loves
is a beginning.
I am for something.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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