David McLansky

Rookie - 482 Points (5/24/1944 / New York City)

When a Poem is Done

When a poem is done
My soul is purged,
The torment released,
In nouns and verbs.

I sift the prison of my soul
And the words run out
My bitter toil.

For a while
There is some relief
My soul is cleansed,
My thoughts deceased;

But who would have thought
Would have had the impression
That in my tiny skull
Marched such a precession?

Of opinions inked
Of distinction made
Of memories linked,
A vast parade.

A ceaseless flow
Of subtle notes
Where do they go?
Once they're unyoked.

Out into the wide world
Of Padip and Elaine
Strangers I'd love to meet
On a continental train.

Submitted: Wednesday, August 06, 2014

Topic of this poem: love

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  • Rookie - 128 Points Elaine Sept (9/1/2014 5:03:00 PM)

    Oh what a grand parade that would be, to have your poems on their own float... and you the parade marshal.

    I believe I would be in awe of you, and your every word, should I meet you in person.

    What a wonderful poem David!
    xo (Report) Reply

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