Billow
Bank
Of
Cloud
Hides
The
Sun,
Holding
Back
Spring
Flower
Fun,
But
Shade
Cannot
Last
As
The
Light
Rushes
Past.
The
Lilac
Knows
The
Breeze
Blows
In
The
Eager
Season,
Fulfilling
Nature’s
Secret
Reasons.
A
Billow Bank Of Cloud Hides The Sun, Holding Back Spring Flower Fun, But Shade Cannot Last As The Light Rushes Past. The Lilac Knows The Breeze Blows In The Eager Season, Fulfilling Nature’s Secret Reasons.
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New Mexico 2
Out Here, Old Roots Run Deep Beneath The Sand, Of Tribes Which Roamed This Land, And One Does Well To Understand How Silence Reigned, Then Fell Away With Every Passing Day. Go West, Was Said, And Many Make The Trek, To Build And Plow Until Now There Is A Din Of Noise Covering The Past, Which Against Progress, Could Not Last. The
Canvas On My Easel Is Upside Down, To Facilitate The Painting Of The Background. This One Is Much Like A Hundred Other Pieces I Have Done, But Somehow, Always New, Becomes Itself, And Emerges Fully Formed, No Matter What I Do. Tomorrow
Is April, And I’m Unprepared, Recalling Other Aprils That We Shared, And How Much We Cared. It All Slipped Away On Yet Another April Day, Blowing All The Flowers Away. I Survived, To Keep Your Memory Alive And Ever New, Do My Best, And Lovely April Does The Rest. Pigeons
Gather On A Nearby Roof, The Males Attentive, The Females Aloof. Round And Round The Suitors Spin, In A Dance Of Bird Romance, But It’s Not Their Lucky Day. In A Flock, The Ladies Fly Away. Does
Anyone Know How To Let Go Of Ragged Dreams, Worn By Travel, Tearing At The Seams, And Yet, Still Get By? No Matter What I Try, They Cling To Everything, Faded And Torn To Fragments, Stories Untold, Now Grown Old, Their Time Run Out, The Heart Unable To Share, Though I More Than Care, Each Silent Line Wholly Mine. Standing
At The Gates Of The Day, Years Fall Away. Time Revolves Like A Wheel, With Nothing Left To Steal, Memories Pressed Flower Flat, Myriad Colors Intact, Devoid Of Substance Yet Palpable, Wholly Real, My Heritage To Cherish, Sacred As A Private Marriage. Men
Pass By In Trucks, Driving Slow, And I Wonder Where They Go. What’s Their Destination, To Keep An Assignation With Lovers Galore, Or Doing Nothing More Than Traveling To The Hardware Store, And They’ll Go Home With A Sack Of Fancy Glue, Nuts And Screws, As Men Are Generally Apt To Do. Tiny
Bubbles In The Wine, A Smudge Of Moon, A Shifting Crowd Shadowed By A Vagrant Cloud, Dancing, Dancing On A String, In The Latest Fashion Fling, Where’s The Meaning Of It All, Waiting For The Promised Call, Trying To Find What’s Important, What Is Mine, Pressed By Fleeting Time, Gone Like Rising Bubbles In The Wine. One
Spring, Crossing Sixth Avenue At Fifty Seventh Street, A Tattered Man Approached Me In The Crowded Space, And Shouted Into My Face, “How Does It Feel To Be God’s Fool?” I Stayed Cool And Walked On, But I Remember His Angry, Determined Pace, And That Time And Place, His Voice Ringing Out In A Harsh Chime. I Escaped, And Now I’ve Put Him Safely Away In A Rhyme. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2024
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