The Hit Pismire Poem by Francie Lynch

The Hit Pismire



She shakes her butt
When I get home;
Does everything
To get the bone.
She realizes;
I recognize.

The new born eyes
Me so intently;
I return the gaze
Just as gently.
She realizes;
I recognize.

The battered bird
With feathers thinning,
Knows Spring's waxing,
Winter's waning.
It realizes;
I recognize.

So too with art
As pieces languish,
Some we banish
As too outlandish;
Some are lost
At our great cost;
Some are found
Underground,
In a cave
On frescoes walls,
In attic, cellar,
Flea market stalls.

A sonnet found
In some distant shire,
Or ten words
Of wisdom
We retired;
Banished today,
Tomorrow admired.
We realize;
We recognize
Not all our work
Can inspire,
When buried in
The hit pismire.

Friday, February 20, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: love
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Francie Lynch

Francie Lynch

Monaghan, Ireland
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