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Love gone sour

I was in a poetry mood tonight so came up with this. Not having written verse for a while, I decided to use my old pen name from literally decades ago.

Click for larger size – background via http://spidergypsy.deviantart.com


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Emily Dickinson – Selected Poems

Nehal's World


[Emily Dickinson’s House, now a Museum]

The wind tapped like a tired man,
And like a host, “Come in,”
I boldly answered; entered then
My residence within

A rapid, footless guest,
To offer whom a chair
Were as impossible as hand
A sofa to the air.

No bone had he to bind him,
His speech was like the push
Of numerous hummingbirds at once
From a superior bush.

His countenance a billow,
His fingers, if he pass,
Let go a music, as of tunes
Blown tremulous in glass.

He visited, still flitting;
Then, like a timid man,
Again he tapped–’twas flurriedly—
And I became alone.

-Emily Dickinson – Selected Poems


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Moon-1just one wish if you could influence the stars for me when they awake in the midnight sky

in my sleep sound and deep in dreams I hold the light of the full moon in my palms

this darkened chamber shall be emptied and forgotten when the morning sun enters with a bright new day

but for tonight dear moon wrap me in your light let me hold on for just a while longer as this enchanted summer’s night will soon bring tomorrow ❤

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joy will find a way

Make me a bed of fond memories
Make me to lie down with a smile
Everything that rises afterward falls
But all that dies has first to live.

As longing becomes love
As night turns to day
Everything changes
Joy will find a way

— Bruce Cockburn


A little verse in the middle of a snowstorm…

I came upon a ‘Gyptian Scribe

This ancient act of writing down
Makes cynics laugh and comics frown
Bemuse me, Lord, and let me sing
Like the bells of St. Mary’s
How they ring!
How they ring!

Back in days of hardened youth
When the glass was full
And all, uncouth

I came upon a ‘Gyptian Scribe
Who held to tablets, firm with pride
He sat cross-legged
and looked to me
“My friend,” he said,
“Just wait and see.”

To this cryptic utterance I did reply
“But who are you?
And what do you speak?”

The scribe smiled sweet
Through time’s round gate
And spoke to me
“It’s not too late.”

Perplexed beyond all measure fair,
I decided quick, to make this square
“Listen here, Scribe,” I said to he,
“If you be not a reverie
Tell me what this riddle makes!”

Alas, the Scribe turned to me
And sent these words
direct to deliveree.

And that is all I have to say
You decide–
or fake?

Copyright © Michael Clark, 2008. All rights reserved.

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I was at another blog earlier and came across an interesting post about trees. It reminded me of the old Joyce Kilmer poem.


I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest  
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;  
A tree that looks at God all day,          
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;  
A tree that may in summer wear  
A nest of robins in her hair;  
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;  
Who intimately lives with rain.  
Poems are made by fools like me,  
But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer {1886-1918}