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It's All Worship | Poetry
Where your life is concerned, you can know the sun setting over fog-draped mountains, and dewdrops gleaming in fresh moss, and the minty kiss of cold, moist pine air, and the roar of the emerald river below the high bridge, swollen with rain and anxi...
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Inspiration | Poetry
Sunrise like sunset,like gold on emerald,guarded by a haze of longing,depths of a childhood feared and missed at once,driving into a continuous painting:falling elm leaves, a bounding squirrel,crows fighting over an acorn,seagulls next to the yellow ...
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My Soul's Translation | Poetry
It rises, inevitably gray, and sinks pink soon after.It used to hurt that such was so.I didn't understand.The light couldn't reach my soul because it was in hiding,not because winter was upon the world.I spent thousands of dollars trying to understan...
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Sunsets | Poetry
Why is it that unless you’re dying,you’re not supposed to notice sunsets?So many movies make this plain!So many novels too!(Which you wouldn’t know,because you don’t bother reading.)Sunsets are only worth noticing—really noticing—only whe...
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Orange Obscenity | Protest Poetry
Through this age of blindness, of noise, of—cackling, screaming, pleading ...this age of masturbatory self-dealing, wheeling, groaning ...this age of destruction writ large, of the purveyance of all things profane,this age so insane ...This climb a...
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I Can | Poetry
“Life is a militia against malicia, or malice,” so says my favorite aphorist.For too long I have fought the wrong war and the wrong enemies.It wasn’t that they weren’t enemies; they were.Just the wrong ones.My evolution has been slow and many...
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Plastic Money | Poetry
What aggravates is the memory, and the sneer.Both tell me the same thing.I don’t count, and nothing I ever do will change that.I’m delusional if I think I can.Change comes like lightning in the dark.The darkness is others: their minds, or what pa...
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Cancerous Indifference | Poetry
If conflict defines us—and I think it does for so many—then what do we dowhen a structure opens the way to laughter, or to a reverent moment alone,or to a place where suspicion smokes elsewhere? What then?He’s dying. Then again, he never really...
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Wound | Poetry
Why believe when all I need is to open my eyes?Why argue with the world? Why even acknowledge it?The world has never and will never care about me, about my life,about anything I have to say or will say.Each day is a broken egg. Each day is a twig sna...
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Left of Anything | Poetry
Left of anything is a story.I tell it to myself in my saner moments.I drink it and bathe in it andlet it drain me of will and wandering.Left of anything is a song.I can't hear it,but it can hear me.I sing to it,and I feel it smile nightswhen the cold...
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