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Lighthearted Noon
Row of blue windows: the sky in a door
Little hands reaching with feathery sighs
Burning homes drinking, then asking for more
Wrinkled men smiling; their breath never dies
Prophets and ghosts at an empty table
Sipping goblets of thought, feasting on words
The yoke is easy, the oxen able
An opening cage, a streaming of birds
Scraps from the kitchen are fed to the earth
Melodies of light which draw on so long
Hearts put in basins of mourning and mirth
Singing the story and reading the song
Invoke the full moon, listen to her talk
Windmills today and the Good Shepherd’s flock
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This article has 13 comments.
How are you on this fine day, my well-feathered Bard?
Same here. I definitely feel like America's educational system needs to be reorganized.
Algebra and AP US History are killing me, but I take painting to take the edge off of school life.
You're always so kind, Liz. :)
Poetry, I think, is not a hierarchy. It's like the surface of an ocean. There are ripples and waves, and each of us poets is like a little boat floating on top. Sometimes, when the water rises there, we feel like we're lower than the poet where we float over here. But one must always remember that we float on the same waters, and the God of the Sea holds us in the same regard. The depth is the important part, not the surface. I'm not a better poet than you at all, I know that. :)
How're classes going with you?
I often think that the Amish have a purer idea about how to live life than most Americans, at least, do.
The photo reminded me of a beautiful painting which as remember seeing as a young child.