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Because of life
we cannot see
all of heaven's
majesty;
for all remaining
on the earth
are limited by
the grave's fresh dirt,
and all that we
can grasp and feel
are wounds from grief
that never heal,
they just become
numb with time
and written about
in verse and rhyme.
But this should
not be all we see,
death, that is,
and what's not to be.
I like to write
but I don't know
if my writing
has a flow.
I always care to
contemplate
every single
word I state.
But then again
I've always heard
do not obsess
on every word.
Flowers do me good
I say
on any given
single day.
Different colors and
different kinds
make up nature's
precious find,
and I'm not sure
but I have a hunch
they're even better
by the bunch.
A  pheasant  is  strutting
around  my  garden  today.

He's  a  very  beautiful  bird
and  he  knows  it.

Strutting  around  as  if
he's  the  king.

Calling  out  now  and  again
disregarding  all  the  other  birds.

I  must  be  close  to  nature
with  him  in  the  garden.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
 May 2016 Jimmy Hegan
jane taylor
heartache is a gift that breaks us wide open
and gently spills into the broken places
that we never knew were there

agony fills in those crevices
with a quiet reverence
and peaceful meditation

no matter how form appears
the content
is stillness

thoughts appear
illusory images dance before me
yet there is no duality

even in this seeming world of separation
i realize that i at last am home
and that i never left

©2016janetaylor
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