j-maxwellWhisper

American

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So Let it Be With WordsFriends, poets, and critics, lend me your ears; / I come to praise poetry, not to bury it. / For the printed Words of men live after them

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957

The Bitter Things We Cannot Take BackI once shot a bird while my mother cried / A single pellet in a winged angel, stolen from the unforgiving sky / Neither burial nor pyre brings ease to her mind

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866

The Old Bricks of New YorkI once dreamt of a distant skyline soft and grey against blue / jazz floating with taxis down crowded avenues of the night / grooving naked and echoing across a city cast brick by brick by broken bones,

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802

A Poet is...A Poet is a soul suffering silently and alone behind absorbing eyes / A Poet moans music and sighs syllables into obedient ink / Poets can be white, grey, red, green, black, yellow, blue, or pink.

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708

From A Pen Blue to YouAlone on this spinning rock we wander / My pen, my hand, I ponder / the solitary path I trip

19

655

People on The Spinning RockWe are all poets, lovers, and children / standing on this revolving rock spinning into the void infinite, / casting pennies to the rushing stream wishing for cheaper fares

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605

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