On the phone
The rain stopped. Hear no sound.
The keys on the computer squeak.
Rhythmically gnaw the fingers.
I do not feel pain.
Late last night I called you. You answered.
I'm a stranger in my town...
I continue to erase...
I'm sure for those erased.
It 's easy to cancel arguments.
But I cannot write sounds.
I cannot describe summers.
Still painting winters.
That have no answer. Maybe I'm getting old?
Blame the books that I read?
I lack the confidence of those who do not write poems.
You answered me:
The flowers do not make noise.
Resist the ugliness with colors.
Resist the rain with petals.
New petals. Opened in place of the lost.
Do not forget, neither do I write poems...
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (On the phone by Konstantinos B. Sventzouris )
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