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Post by Bobby Slais on Jul 1, 2007 6:59:41 GMT -5
Fresh coffee, another morning, “Only the best served here" used to be, such lovely beans. Before the window, a sill, circular water stains, cheap wood, plucked red tomato ripens, round a trace of the dark hole remains, one entrance, no exit, a worm. Two eyes, are arranged to see through double paned, a glare as the finches come in, rose-breasted and golden. They sing their songs for food, or are they complaining? It sounds that way to me. There’s one that controls, too busy to eat, just sing. Love used to be, juicy, the smell of a good poem brewed in just the right time, read aloud with feeling. Yes! The meaning did have a meaning and our touch had feel. Now, the door swings open and the damn hinges are squeaking again; the stairs lead away from home.
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Post by Bernard Alain on Jul 18, 2007 19:58:34 GMT -5
liked the idea of this Bobby, the imagery and emotion is a good blend.
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Post by Bobby Slais on Jul 25, 2007 5:50:40 GMT -5
liked the idea of this Bobby, the imagery and emotion is a good blend. Appreciate the comments here Bernie. This is one of those snapshots, a moment captured, reflecting what's inside and out. Honored that you enjoyed it. Smiles! Bobby
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