What next?
said her room
with a guest.
What’s left?
but our cockles bereft
of this unending clean.
A bloody mean,
this healing cage.
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Part 3:
Our seat is warm, inside a mat and teacup
They hope to softly forth the dawn’s coming.
Now light comes to wake carnage of nocturnal ghosts
Amid the robin song and grass growing.
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What was, but mist,
was welled by morn.
A tempting bliss
kept valleys warm.
For times, this shroud
and swing spoke loud,
to mist, they spoke.
By sun, off woke.
The land, again free,
then lived just to be.
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Super!
It’s been awhile, but I still smile
thinkin’ of ways
to spend the days
makin’ time
for rhythm and rhyme.
And learning’ language,
a pretty #French sandwich,
with beautiful bouquets
and a scent that’s meant
for a loving mind
of a gracious kind of “oui.”
#poetry
THE PROPHET’S ROAD
By George, I learned
from ruddy Burns
how far we drove
the prophet’s road.
O’er time this rhyme
matured the mind
for tasting signs
of vintage wines.
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Feel the excitation
before your recitation.
Our party and your quill
will fill the verbal till.
Prepare well then dare
to stretch words with voice.
You reveal to us things
when you make the words sing.
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