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Trimester One

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"1st Place Winner of the Open Community Poetry Contest for the period October-December, 2011."--ed.

 

It starts in the brain.

Lingering fogs of morning hanging grey as the sun tries desperate to burn through with a moment of clear thought.

The milk still on the counter sweating sodden pools down to the floor.

A light is on in the room long empty.

Still the haze settles in the lowlands of the mind.

There are no words because there cannot be any.

There is no I for there is only dualities joining inside.

 

Mere survival awaits, anything else self-indulgence.

Poetry is decadence.

Bones are to be drained of minerals like mice gnawing in winter.

We must carry on comrade, though our back is breaking under the growing weight that does not allow sleep.

But sleep we must, again, again, though the day quickly passes.

Heavy it comes, pulling insistent at the edges.

We can fight it no longer. 

 

 

Comments (12)

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May I say with devout devotion your words are of those I most desire, they are raked over hot coals until they catch up with your fire, and then you spread them like a thin layer of fine cheese across the earth to me so I alone can read. God I...

May I say with devout devotion your words are of those I most desire, they are raked over hot coals until they catch up with your fire, and then you spread them like a thin layer of fine cheese across the earth to me so I alone can read. God I love your words, but admire these flames you find in the simple things. Never stop!

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Thanks Vangoman! I hope you're not calling my work cheesy...

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Never...So eloquent and descriptive your words lay after you finished them. "The milk still on the counter sweating sodden pools down to the floor" I can see you in your hard worked hat readying yourself for the work ahead, you pause and briefly...

Never...So eloquent and descriptive your words lay after you finished them. "The milk still on the counter sweating sodden pools down to the floor" I can see you in your hard worked hat readying yourself for the work ahead, you pause and briefly see the bottle or carton of milk and words began to dribble out and bead against your eyes- You lock this image away and work the field and the poem together. Both end with the suns bowing. Your poems remind that blood from our life is required for a poem of this magnitude. Blood of heart.

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I FELT this poem as I read it... well done

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Thanks all!

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Yes T, there is a definite feel to all your poems that inspire a warmth, or should I say instead a familiarity that one can't quite grasp. "...bones drained of minerals like mice gnawing in winter," wow that is priceless.

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Thanks Alberto! It feels good to be able to grasp at some words again after such a long break, even if they're only at a slow trickle to start.

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Congratulations on your 1st place poem!

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Thanks Wicked!

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Some nice lines in this one. Congratulations on winning the contest.

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