I printed out
all of my poetry,
put it in a plastic bag,
and crawled out my bedroom window
to the roof.
There I stood beneath the full moon,
grabbed everything I could,
and flung 40 years of words to the sky.
Many white pages,
like plucked wings of a mythical bird,
flapped and fluttered to the ground,
the first complaint,
of the man who comes
tomorrow morning to mow the lawn.
More (click and scroll)
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at April 8, 2012 08:51 AM
I love your poetry! I think you under-rate yourself---it is really not just the ordinary stuff...no, not at all. I have published a beautiful book of poetry for Vanya Franck. How about I create a book of all your "lost poetry" perhaps with Evelyne's paintings or mosaics...?
Posted by: Barbara Schacker at April 8, 2012 06:55 PM
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