Rehearsals For Bereavement Poem by gregory collins

'Have a proud soul and gush irrepressibly between the rocks of life,
dripping down with a balance that has no scale in all the cries of the world'

estwick nash


I think some of my poems are plotting against me. But what poem
watches a poet! I mean i dare to be poetic, and know why the soul

does not argue. But poetry is the thorn that produces stickly roses,
and if you spend a night with my poems, you had better go to the

clinic. Because poetry wishes for peace as it is preparing for war.
Poetry assigns a fox to guard the henhouse of your soul: and I do not

think i want the wolf looking after my sheep when i lean against
the way you hanged yourself; Peering a century ahead like there

is no other use for me. Like someone else who lost hearing and
sight, but still will come to your side and care not about how the

roses on the tomb were thrown: By those who love, those who
are loved, or those you are trusting to kiss for a reason.