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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jun 26, 2012 2:19:01 GMT -5
This time When you go away Find your point of departure On the side of a cliff And build a small heap of stone Then leave from a heap of stone To where you will never return;
In a few days The rain carries the stones down into the valley And nothing remains Of your burning emotion That took you away.
And when you return You will find no where to stay Because everything has become an abandoned silence That does not recognize past recriminations Or give a damn about them
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Mar 15, 2012 6:20:29 GMT -5
yes, can see the blue yello black of van gogh melding a europe of a dream that is as fantastic as it is old, as mundane as it is excitable...yet as always in poetry, a personal dream that is unique to each od our eyes oh head and heart
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Mar 15, 2012 6:17:11 GMT -5
i enjoy this prose/verse style that reaches into the mind with personal energy and life experience
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Tango
Mar 13, 2012 3:36:37 GMT -5
Post by Dunstan Attard on Mar 13, 2012 3:36:37 GMT -5
can see this poem tango and the emotion of life flow into the spell of permanent being
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Mar 13, 2012 3:33:16 GMT -5
I searched into the dark echo of the well yet mountains soared and skies chanted 'I want to live life'
and the river flowed in her womanly splendor towards the skin of the ocean's prelude
and no eye can more than this see the warmth of the evening fires that soars into a new beging that is a joy of love without heresy nor illusion.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Feb 19, 2012 6:19:52 GMT -5
was yesterday hearing the powerful engine hum of a yacht and wondered at the smooth power and even more at the power of the human body as it evolved in response to so many challenges.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Feb 19, 2012 6:16:02 GMT -5
thank you don. as always reading your lines that often open on the wide spaces of narrow alleys with the relish of the complicated process of being alive.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Feb 18, 2012 2:37:03 GMT -5
She tells him she can not stand his moaning about the pain he feels,for she has her own pain to deal with and prefers to do it in the routine of a 40 year marriage.
She would rather that he whitewashes the basement, arrange the flower-pots in the yard and paint the front door before summer sets in.
He wonders how he can look at his pain all on his own, and wonders what colour would best suit the front door, seeing that he never entered the house through the front window except for the one time when he had locked his keys inside.
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Omega
Feb 5, 2012 7:04:33 GMT -5
Post by Dunstan Attard on Feb 5, 2012 7:04:33 GMT -5
welcome back, missed your pen...very best for the future.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Feb 4, 2012 3:21:40 GMT -5
Annmarie visited mother every day indulging in fantastic images inscribed in fire before it softly fades away into suburban sunsets.
‘My daughter Annmarie never visits me’ a tear brimming in their eyes.
Annmarie took her hand, cold as marble,looked into mum's eyes, realizing that God does emerge, from time to time, through reckless passion.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jan 29, 2012 11:52:25 GMT -5
fantastic imagery linked to recognisable deep emotion...second line has to be burried?
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jan 24, 2012 4:07:18 GMT -5
Thanks Don. I am not sure I understand the space effect after 'live' since the subject remains 'new days' from the previous stanza...but change makes her look and sound better.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jan 23, 2012 8:02:32 GMT -5
Silence where the crowd fills the square with fragments of sun.
The corpse ends ugly things and flowers can now dare bare their yellow splendor, at first through fissures in walls, then along hills climbing to the scent of virgin oils, where new days live
in a broad something of curious conversations inspired by temptations of wanting to be eternal in the holy image of a middle C
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jan 20, 2012 4:47:39 GMT -5
powerful poem from where I stand...it brings to mind the strong emotional shake and evolution of Maltese and for that matter Italians Greeks and others who have found their home thousands of miles away in such a rich and friendly country as Australia, where their past is behind them round a blind corner at immediately behind their backs into a present and future they belong to with all their spiritual might, yet the past still lingers somewhere within thier concious semi-gravity...
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jan 20, 2012 4:44:03 GMT -5
thanks ivan for your energetic interaction...much appreciated. take care
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