Sandra Fowler
W. Columbia, WV, USA
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(1) Echoes

Rating: 3.2
I was picking flowers and you were praising smoke.
The echoes of that last time linger on.
Birds pieced from the gray quilt of the dusk
Sang mighty wholeness that is ever lost.

I held your face like summer in my hands.
The warmth was various, a rare suncut.
Wind played your tune through simple blades of grass.
You never heard it, but I hear it still.
Muse India
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Iris Blue 22 December 2012
A wonderful blend of nature and nostalgia echo throughout taking the reader on a journey through a sequence of visuals where memories are recalled with such clarity. I particularly like the line 'birds pieced from the grey quilt of the dusk' to savour and re read.
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premji premji 03 March 2010
You never heard it, but I hear it still.............. i never forget it, but i hear it for ever.................
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Nivedita Bagchi SPC UK 14 January 2010
Wonderful …’… I held your face like summer in my hands….’ It’s you held warmth of bosom…well poemed… 10+ Ms. Nivedita UK
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premji premji 24 April 2009
usually sounds echoes... but visuals echoes minded people can listen to your poetic and deep love...........
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Vaibhav Pandey 19 April 2009
ma'm...what a wonderful really capture mind and soul of a reader through your this one....10
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Mary Naylor 12 November 2008
Can you capture a dropp of eternity? I feel you have in this poem. 'I held your face like summer in my hands.' I'm glad I didn't miss reading that sentence.
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Sarwar Chowdhury 22 September 2008
I loved it bcoz created imagery have touched my heart and your style is beautifull..........10
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Chitra - 11 July 2008
A very beautifully crafted piece of work
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Bill Grace 15 September 2007
Sandra, P is for poet. O is for of. E is for exceptional. T is for talent. When you see POET in your comments you know I have visited. I always enjoy your work and am thrilled to have discovered you. Bill Grace
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Muhammad Hesham 08 September 2007
The uniqueness of this poem lies in its ability to transcend the very feelings of grief and loss that constitute its raison d’être. In spite of the birds’ song of the “mighty wholeness that is ever lost”, the tune of the lost beloved is incessantly played by the wind “through simple blades of grass”. The continuity of the tune, through the echoes, endows the lost one with a new life, emphasizing the fact that such loss, though painful, can never be ultimate.
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