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I make smiles from shattered eyes
cry December's distracting frost

move my soul with hopeful sighs
and pray our devotion is not lost.

It is the eve of renewal's glee
gave sad promises to spoon the moon

but in the haste of glass we freeze
pose with strangers who fill our room

sweat bemoans my reaching hand
your eyes are vacant with his lust

he bids the hours by each command
we smoke our feelings into dust,

this boy is weak yet worships you,
who opens darker gates to breed.

Then enters light, that stirs, confused,
my tears to scream still go unseen.

i am a wish of hearts refused,
the sound of fallen poetry...
Repost
Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go.

I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die?

I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path.

Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and leek..by adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across.

And do you know...in the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being.

This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all.

This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground...
What is....most definately is!

M.
Taranaki NZ
Thinking hard about what these lines lack
Music, clarity, accessibility

Something has to sing
Something has to let go

Do I burrow into your skull?
Do I let you go?
Do I release you?

What do we need release from?

You are released from all
and this is your moment

How fast did you
abandon your moment?

Can u slow down
to speed up?

Lines boiled from conversations
you weren't in

Smoked signals
stumbling down the page

Net of nothing
catching everything

I'm just putting
bones here

Cleant by fear

More
I hear
is needed

Fairly
Sometimes my bony things are of hope and humor

the best
just smiley enuf

I'll work
on singing

And dancing
See what happens then

to these
spare lines



Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
"Faith is an oasis in the heart
which can never be reached by
the caravans of thinking."
"You live in the feeling of your thinking." -Clarity

So I try
to live in

the beautiful
poetry you write

and
in your intent

to write such
even if they clang

off the rim
of my teensie winsie

art hole

Clang

sorry

the best
arn't private

seed
hope

often by sharing
despair

"ah"
we think

I am
of

Here


Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
THE ONLY EDEN

Granny unable to
see

would build me
touch by touch

with her blind fingertips
search for the face

she would create.

Here my cheekbone
coming into being

there an eyebrow
newly born

here an eye
there a philtrum

sculpted from sunlight
hewn from nothing

here blind seeing
fashioning me anew

her fingertips
butterflies

forming this
living portrait

of the face
I own.

Her fingers feeling
for each nuance...each tone

the music of me
plucked from thin air

one moment I am not
then I am

all there.

I made all the more
real.

More realer
that I could ever be

emerging from
her fingertips

as if I were
God's Adam

and this her tiny garden
the only Eden.
Guilt by association for Kavanagh
In the face of Trumps' dismissal
Of a quiet womans' courage
and collosal fortitude.
M.
1/10/18
So......A phyrric victory for Kavanagh, I think, in view of the obscenity of Trumps'jeering rant denigrating all who dared to oppose ....and for all who showed they felt the shame for nation and certitude of collapse of this disgraceful house of cards.  
M.
7/10/18
Her frizzly silk mop,
Flowers in sparkling grey fizz;
My Bodhi perfect !
we may be, but
I feel our hearts
drumming
in rhythm
wherever I go
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