My most poignant and treasured Christmas gift, given to me by my mother, was a collection of my poetry journals, gone missing (after loaning them to a friend to read) ... tracked down, recovered and presented back to me. It was an exhausting search my mother undertook...And such a loving gesture that time could never erase. poetry come home, , , ,
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
A very nice poem.
Thank you poet.
Buk! Although I admit not being an avid accolador of your verse...I like this...Can ya' 'ere me now, Buk? ! I said, I LIKE THIS PARTICULAR POEM OF YOURS...Furthermore, if this be a true life storyline, I owe ya more reads as I thought I knew a good deal 'bout your life, but never knew 'bout the hijacking uv yer' quillings....BTW: Last 3 lines, unfortunately...all too true...10-4 Buk! ~FjR~
from the heart and guts.the only poem i've ever given a 10 to on here.And the image of God crossing his legs and lamenting the lack of poetry, is one that will live with me and very apt.
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