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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 21, 2009 8:43:39 GMT -5
I have been traveling too often of late With no time to settle down To write you a poem of love.
Bags, again packed, Radio playing softly 'night of roses' This dawn is truly unhurried Among chapels of silent age
And so my pen finally writes;
I stretch my hand Into my inhospitable soul, Where it roams And stretches And roams In vain reach for your love.
Love must have either worn a black mackintosh And become the dark, Or was lost somewhere In between my excited promises And one theatrical pause
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Post by Nick Harris on Aug 21, 2009 9:55:16 GMT -5
great! but I can't see your bags gazing at you "with the begging eyes of a dog" - that image is distracting. excellent last two stanzas.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 21, 2009 11:45:51 GMT -5
thanks nick. my travelling bags are shiny black and as they wait by the door i seem to see two dogs patiently waiting to be released into the freedom of the outdoors. having said that i will change it. thanks most appreciated.
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Post by Nick Harris on Aug 21, 2009 12:43:31 GMT -5
Radio playing 'Night of Roses' - very cool, says so much
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Post by Bernard Alain on Aug 21, 2009 16:07:50 GMT -5
and up she goes goes again, nice dunstan, a great day for reading in this forum
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 22, 2009 8:07:39 GMT -5
thanks bernard.
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Post by leecrowell on Sept 29, 2009 5:41:43 GMT -5
a poem about failed love that finally makes sense
thanks Dunstan for proving the art is not lost
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