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Post by Bobby Slais on Jul 1, 2007 6:49:24 GMT -5
I missed the love. It is written on parchment, embossed with a raised seal stored out of sight, in places. If I were allowed to touch, I surely would have felt it.
Close the door, it’s chilly. Such a distraction that draft, just another invisible element placed upon my skin in places, meant to make me feel real appreciation for the warmth of spring.
The plastic flowers can feel it. See how they sway and waft, but while their petals flutter dust still gathers in places, lower than the light is allowed to shine on, illuminate the color's hue.
In the shadows, I can still cry. The empty corners of the room provide the privacy to be me. The carpet there is worn in places but it never stains with the salt to divulge to all the love I missed.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 9, 2007 14:34:52 GMT -5
as technology has extensively widened opportunities available to homo sapiens, opportunity cost has become a terrible dilemma ... 24 hours have become a flash... instant dominates humanity's cravings...as a consequence poetry has come to suffer as poets are required to write short economical and shallow...yet these demands are driven by an understanding that a poet writes to be read by the widest possible spectrum of readers...so when i meet a poet who writes first and foremost for himself/herself my heart leaps...now i am an integral part of the instant society and i too delight at short intellectually shallow poetry...yet in those alas too infrequent instances when i finally persevere into a poem like Something Missing in Places, i take absolute delight as i travel through its spaces...
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