Cooling,
Not
Yet
Cold,
Aging,
Though
Far
From
Old,
One
Day
The
Heart
Turned
Away
And
Forgot,
And
Love
Was
Not.
Courage
Faded
In
The
Light
That
Burned
Too
Bright,
And
Silently,
In
The
Night,
Was
Gone
Before
Dawn.
Love
Cooling, Not Yet Cold, Aging, Though Far From Old, One Day The Heart Turned Away And Forgot, And Love Was Not. Courage Faded In The Light That Burned Too Bright, And Silently, In The Night, Was Gone Before Dawn.
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Into The Inner Bower Of The Flower And Dwell There For A Brief Hour, One With The Hidden, Secret, Visually Perfect, Delicate Power Of Beauty Painted In Glory, A Complex Story Striped, Aware And Erect, In Myriad Ways No One Suspects. Georgia
Is Peaches, Clay Dust, Beaches And Farms. It’s Hot, But Not Enough To Harm, Dry, But Growth Is Good, And There She Stood, A Country, Cherokee Rose. Now She Is Elsewhere, But We Had A Small Share Of Her Light, To Leave Us A Bright, Nourishing Glow Of Someone Great We Were Privileged To Know. My
Heroes All Dwell In The Past, But Their Magic Lasts, Crosses The Gates Of Time In Music, Prose, Art, And Rhyme, To Compose A Space Of Quiet Repose In This Frazzled, Hectic, Hour, With Love, And Ever Increasing Power. In
The Land Of The Borborygmi, The Women Are Tall, And The Men Are Pygmy. All The Trees Grow Upside Down, Bloom Pink, And Decorate The Only Town. The Folks Are Striped In Shades Of Brown, Their Clothes Are Furry, Nobody Worries About Taxes Or Crime, And They’re All Having A Splendid Time. We Made Suggestions, Offered Funds, And They Threw Us Out, Saying We Were Far Too White, And Way Too Uptight, To Know What’s Really Right. Run,
Run Flat Out And Never Stop, Run Until You Drop. Hollow Is The Pretty Prize, No Solace Can Be Found In Another’s Eyes, Be Wise, Follow The Inner Sun, And Run. The
Clocks Fell Back, And I Lost Track Of Time, And Find Myself Either Early Or Late, Thinking It’s Nine When It’s Only Eight. What Folly. Since Nothing Was Saved, Ergo, Nothing Is Lost, But There’s A Nagging, Perceived Cost That Always Goes With Losing The Flow. Pocked
Skin Seared With Primitive Desire In Flakes Of Orange Fire, He Became A Thief And Liar, All To Serve His Burning Need And Selfish Greed, Lied Because The Truth Would Show How Slow A Brain Could Sustain A Man, How Low, How Small, And Yet, He Can Enthrall A Cheering Crowd Of Fools, Eager To Be As Vile And Cruel As He. It
Could Be The Person I See In The Glass Isn’t Quite Me, But An Aged Relation From An Alien Nation. How Did It Come To Pass, Just When I Glanced Away, I Became Gray? I Brush Her Teeth And Comb Her Hair, Since She’s The Only One There, Dress Her In My Daily Kit, And Make The Best Of It. Come What May, Here’s A New Day. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2024
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