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Born and reared in the city of Bridgeport,
where the trash arose from Long Island Sound.
The seagulls appeared, then vanished from sight,
wafting and diving through radiant sky.
Some inlets and harbours, lapping the shore,
while sounds of young voices screamed with delight.

Marvelous moments to form our delight.
Skipping through the busy streets of Bridgeport.
Heading south down Park, to visit the shore.
Where all you could hear was the visual sound,
of airplanes and balloons, gracing the sky,
alive in my mind but quite out of sight.

The crystalline sparkle came into sight,
to everyone’s pure and simple delight.
We watched as the clouds emerged from blue sky,
over the stunted skyline of Bridgeport.
Suddenly the clamour, the noise, the sound
came crashingly close to the rocky shore.

With silence removed from that muffled sound,
bemoaning the graphite and speckled sky.
Searching and groping for inner delight.
pasteurized thoughts over the sandy shore.
Memorized pictures brought into our sight,
a lost time; in the bowels of Bridgeport.

Sail boats and tankers came upon the shore,
out of the distance, and into my sight.
All I could hear was breath of the sound,
with glee, laughter, and a certain delight.
The slums became the city of Bridgeport,
reaching endlessly toward the dancing sky.

Adrift; at peace, and awashed by the sound,
flippantly airy as ground touched the sky.
I strolled and smiled with love lost delight,
scampered along on our copious shore.
Aware that my flight was love at first sight,
on the coast, in the city of  Bridgeport.

Amped delight amid the light of our sound
misconstrued Bridgeport scraped close to the sky,
up to the shore and again out of sight.
copyright, April 10, 2011
    A sestina consists of 6 sestets and 1 triplet (envoi)...usually unrhymed and repeat the end words of each line using these patterns:  a) 123456 b) 615243 c) 364125 d) 532614 e) 451362 f) 246531 triplet) (6 2) (1 4) (5 3)...middle and end words of lines in tercet...
As always.....I'm looking for feedback and critique
Thank you, my friend--
little by little,
waves of time wash the wound:
worn driftwood,
broken shells,
a distant foghorn.  
I follow meandering footprints
disappearing in the sand--  
Suddenly, a glorious sunrise,
bright as her laughter.
 Apr 2011 Kate Little
Joel M Frye
aimless caresses possess
a puissance, carelessly
purposeful, impossibly
sensual, seducing with
mercilessly sharpened
incessant desires,
releasing passionate
hisses of suspended
breaths, sweetness
of whispers, softness
of kisses slipping their
passage past *******,
solar plexus,
slowly, slowly
submerging
to sunder her
senseless with
soul-shaking
consummating
surcease.
 Apr 2011 Kate Little
Joel M Frye
Sky black as midnight;
wind screams in wild agony,
driven through houses.
A tornado touched down about 1/2 mile from my work yesterday; I pray never to see that kind of sky that closely again.
 Apr 2011 Kate Little
Joel M Frye
my mind opens to
unlearned knowledge
unwritten words
unspoken voices
unrecorded lives
untold wisdom
unearthed by
unceasing
undertow of
universal
understanding
undeterred
unless
my mind closes
 Mar 2011 Kate Little
Joel M Frye
o splendid child most whOlly pure and sweet (
angelic, come to claim your worldly place)
de
    scend
              ing, born to mother of the street
Leda to some (on the                  
                                   down-low) Zeus
effervescent incandescent  eYe  s
illuminating darkened cornered souls
of passers-                                                  
      ­            >snappingsnarlingstomping< 
                                                            ­        by                 
with savior's grace found now(here)
                                                       ­      perfect whole
unearthly beauty neon ((halo)) glows
               mirrored
                               on her palest golden hair
from reddest lights and bar signs
                                                         Her steps float
above the concrete-footed walks and stairs
to which we're tied.
                                 Just child's play (yet it seems
that in her wake a cityblock's
                                                  )re­deemed
Thanks for the inspiration, Lucan. :)
 Mar 2011 Kate Little
Joel M Frye
I pull back shrouds of memory
and mourn the child who was
and is no more. Now I can see
just how you died; because
innocence, morality
gave up one day (applause).

Strange, I felt but apathy
when I watched you die,
my child, but when you ceased to be,
my eyes were all but dry.
Just yesterday you swore to me
you'd always be alive.

And there you are. You lie in state.
I grieve your passing. See,
no one knows the massive hate
that caused your life to flee.
Perhaps I'll find, as tears abate,
how much of you was me.
Some days I feel old and wise...some days, just old.
This was written when I was young, ignorant and knew everything.
1974 JMF
Death walked in.
He said to her,
"Be still."
And she is.
So still.
Last night I witnessed my mother's death--
 Mar 2011 Kate Little
Joel M Frye
I don't know where these words will go - I'm writing in the dark;
throwing thoughts before me hoping some will find their mark.
I chase a moving target, follow footsteps down a street;
the sound of fleeing feelings, of your heartbeats in retreat.

That's pure imagination.  You're sitting by my side,
but even as I hold you I can feel you try to hide,
and more - to hide your hiding, hoping I'll be unaware.
You search your soul for someplace where you will not have to share.

I'm standing in the sunshine and the warmth of summer's play,
you sit in winter twilight and grieve the passing day.
You think that night and day can't meet - we're hours and miles apart;
you're sure we'll never finish, so it's senseless then to start.

I've walked the path you travel, I know the way along.
It's rough and cold in places, and it's easy to go wrong.
The crossroads of our journey's just a little further on,
where night and day become as one: I'll meet you at the dawn.
(c) 1984 Joel M Frye

This started out as lyrics for a song, but when it was done, it seemed to stand on its own, so it met my personal criterium for a poem.  So a poem it remains.
 Mar 2011 Kate Little
Joel M Frye
Would that my words would lift you from yourself
and take you far enough away to see
the wonder-fullness of your soul; the wealth
of wisdom, love and generosity
bestowed by you on those who cross your path,
should it be for a moment or a year.
Too close to see yourself, you'd think I'm daft
if I would tell you; you'd choose not to hear
the loving words of praise, be cracking wise
about senility, or loss of mind.
I shake my head. Pray that within my eyes
reflects a tiny glimmer of how kind
and gentle you have been when I've been lost;
how grateful am I that our paths did cross.
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