Whispering willows
Serenade the daytime moon
No one can hear it.
Black and white forest
Cherry blossoms on canvas
Painters kindle fires.
Dark mud and coffee
Pitch a tent nowhere and sleep
Tear up all your poems.
Wilted boutonnieres
Black birds sing Hallelujah
Grass grows anyway.
Cabin in the rain
Deer meat and a slice of cheese
A king and his spoils.
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Awesome 👏
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Thank you. I am a real fan of your work, and it means a lot for me to hear that you like something that I have written.
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Thank you so much , Michael. And welcome welcome welcome 😊
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Tear up all your poems
And shove them
In your pocket
And then
Bit by bit
Reach in
And chew on them
Through out the day.
Get a taste for each
Word.
Lick your lips
With wonder
Over the diction and
Syntax of each line
Now swallow.
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Lyrical munchies mixed in with the trail mix we keep in our pockets. Some of the finger food is sweet, some sour, and a few actually edifying. The soul can be nourished with these bites and keep the fire crackling well into the dark nights that follow. We may succumb to flesh hunger, but the soul will keep digging into all that diction and syntax long after the moss has covered over the bones. This is how we poets survive the eternal night.
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Your poem is sensual craving for words. It touches the poet’s heart and then reaches down to titillate the bowels. It is beautiful, but also fertile earth from which new poems grow. Bravo for what you have written.
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But I only could create it by following your beginning
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We all begin with a clay pot someone has handed to us. How we paint it is our own addition to the art. Poems, like all stories, really come alive when the reader plays with the poem in her imagination or is actually inspired by it to write an original piece.
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