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0180 Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Rating: 2.4
At the far edge of the expanding cemetery
in its uncertain spiritual limbo,
its small gravestones re-emerge only in late summer
like a clipped coat, the tall grass annually machined; of
those who made no will or testament
that we know of and we may be wrong
nor do we know their last thoughts if thoughts
nor do the stones reveal the names they knew themselves by; and
was the human love their inscriptions indicate
less or greater than that evoked
by their own kind? What sort of peace
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Chuck Audette 21 March 2006
Beautiful poem, Michael. Lovely imagery. There might need to be some occasional squirrels around, too. -chuck
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Ghada Shahbender 12 March 2006
Every time I visit our cemetries, and where I am they are arid and dry, I think the dead don't lie here... they lie in the memories of the people who miss them. As usual your poem gives me much to think about.
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i've noticed a pattern of exceptional poems from the writers of the British Isles. this continues that pattern. enjoyed the rabbit stuff - and the punchline at the end was bold and profound.
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Gina Onyemaechi 11 March 2006
Michael, I can't even begin to think about the message here, I'm just swimming in these rich, delicious words! ! Beautiful writing. Regards, Gina.
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Hugh Cobb 11 March 2006
Dear Michael: A lovely poem, here. The sense of connectedness and intercommunication amongst all species is a wonderful thought and so much gets lost in the translation because we, arrogant humans, fail to listen and give proper attention. Best, Hugh
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nicci Hopmann 11 March 2006
good poem iliked it...keep up the good work... nicci
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