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Post by Dunstan Attard on Nov 4, 2007 5:54:41 GMT -5
you like carrots
boiled with a touch of flora margarine
looks sunny tastes yummy
i also like lemon gravy flowing down the sides of monday roast
you say it has to be either or
the breeze from the shore norishes an appetite that carrots alone may not assuage
yet you keep spitting on my roast as i retreat away from your coast
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 19, 2007 12:21:52 GMT -5
the poem's intellecual challenge extracts light from deep soul that reflects on the face of this reader with the joy of touching secluded remotness unseen...
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Denial
Sept 18, 2007 8:40:44 GMT -5
Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 18, 2007 8:40:44 GMT -5
The crowd comes into its own Whenever the jester replaces their time With invisible futures Hiding their now in shine; Placing their fears Onto suicide’s backpage
Or at least That is how I see it
Sandra For one Is terrified Of each Accurate night
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 14, 2007 10:22:55 GMT -5
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 16, 2007 15:47:13 GMT -5
delightful weave of a tapestry full of images and metaphor
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 12, 2007 11:29:12 GMT -5
holistically natural you constantly can catch a shimmer of life with artistic delight
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 11, 2007 8:58:52 GMT -5
it does feel a touch lonely yet i see that poems in the gallery are well visited and bernie indicates that the site is still not properly launched as some final restructuring is under consideration...still i enjoy your poetry so much that a daily visit is always worth the while
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 10, 2007 11:33:04 GMT -5
it is deep night now. the revelers have returned to their homes and sleep comfortably in their beds. the spirit that protects their identity guards their night from an empty silent musty dim saloon...
hey gringo, what brings you to this hamlet?
the dulcet tones of the diva are by now crossing the foot-bridge, delilah has folded her dazzle among the indulgence of hoofs, lacerations of the gnarled kukri are reconciled to innocence where they sleep in their lint, the halma's squares have gathered the night in her corners
the horses now sleep in their hay the fellowship dream in their shine.
hey gringo, why ask who am i?
i am the flower of the hemlock i am the edge of jacobin guard i am the foist healer of my deaf i am the intaglio of my people's schedules i am the definite of my patch.
hey gringo, do you come here to indulge?
i take your stance to be the pliable dance of a crocodile.
hey gringo, what brings you to these parts?
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 9, 2007 5:40:53 GMT -5
your each poem adds to a monument of many man/woman/victoria/albert monuments that gel into one towering testimonial stretching into infinite sky itself a concept of some hypothetical freedom...
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 4, 2007 9:01:51 GMT -5
what i find very enjoyable here is the poem's challenging theme that manages such a sweet and tranquil landing away from vibration and self-doubt
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 2, 2007 13:08:09 GMT -5
is a tree naked when she sheds her leaves?
no
she looks quite forlorn sags my senses
but when her branches are afloat with buds my senses leap among mysterious cravings
when is a woman naked?
when her eyes brim one tear that slides down her trembling cheek
then is a woman so majestically naked
it is at this point that i would want to give her the fragrance of roses the lilacs of morning the caress of the stove the food of honey the echoes of the forest my eyes, my fingers, my mind gloves of silence yes above all gloves of silence
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 7, 2007 8:36:28 GMT -5
i certainly recognise myself there
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Sept 6, 2007 12:30:06 GMT -5
scapegoat is the woman i want to love it is so easy to blame it on others yet in the final analysis we all carry the same weaknesses and delights...all offered on the altars of our inner temples...where blood of the sacrifice drips onto marble floors of desire
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 31, 2007 12:28:44 GMT -5
selfish is a state of being, chronic: a sleeping guard dreaming lights of late-opening supermarkets pretending to be christmas eves.
i see you lean, placing white shopping-bags into your car boot as if they were children.
i sense a hint of your defenseless arms
selfishly i tell you of my sudden urge to love you as you want: a slave a milkman a secret agent or a leaf.
you say ok i may love you as a christ.
selfishly i say fine
you are finally mine
and my temples begin to bleed
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 29, 2007 12:27:42 GMT -5
a love poem that moves with the beat of the heart and flies with the wings of emotion...finds time to rhyme without taking the eye away from the face of the loved one...principally enjoyed the beat and emotion laced with a touch of realism recognising the different faces that adorne each person and self yet all faces of your loved one so intertwined personal and spiritually agreeable.
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