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Her face is like a poem
Her heart a willow tree
Bending softly in the moonglow
Beating always for me
She’s the bell in my distance
The hearth at home
With me everywhere
Even when I’m alone
In the desert she is water
She’s the forest and the trees
Everything she is to me
Everything
 Dec 2023 Edmund black
Phoebe
Paper faces and silicone smiles-
Where’d you get that mask, little girl?
Looks an awful lot like

me.
Every moment is precious,
even the mundane and superfluous.
The torment, grief-stricken and disastrous,
all these moments, yes all, are the days of MY life.

New secrets discovered,
more moments cry out to be recovered.
Embracing all, nurturing, to be mothered,
anew, renewed, refreshed and restored.

Press in; delight.
Expand; day and night,
rejoice; praise despite,
living as new, but in the old.

Maturity births sweeter wine,
wisdom pearls are mine,
all these gifts are thine,
I drink this cup now and forever.
Pradip marks the slow disappearance of faces in the market,
unknown yet familiar and thus important to the senses,
for our eyes crave continuity, comfort reassuring that time,
even time that robber par excellent, still provides some comfort
to our souls, in its own way, even the faces of strangers in familiar places are road markers, bookmarks, that even the known unknown offer a measure of solace, as we traverse the old familiar places
of daily life.

it must be remedied. some of you know that I make not idle promises,
that my promises to be there are effected, for I am affected by the
repair of the world in little, measurable manners, so the iCal calendar
modified with a Visit Pradip++, a new addition…

and on the way there
are few more exotic places where poetry grows that
will require some
layover visitations…

only time in its theiving secretive ways stands between me and
you denied grasping arms, taking the measure physical of a
beating heart
and river-wide smile,
maybe even I’ll practice with a trip to
remote foreign places, which they speak
the languages of poetry too,
Snake River, even Iowa!

olp/n.n.
From the cradle
to the grave
we line up
to be enslaved !
and maybe, and probably
i cannot fix it
so will look after it
admire it daily
unless it rains
james
It takes an empty cage
for the last bird’s song to echo.



Shell ✨🐚
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