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francie-lynchPoems
She shakes her **** When I get home; Does everything To get the bone. She realizes; I recognize. The new born eyes Me so intently; I return the gaze Just as gently. She realizes; I recognize. The battered bird With feathers thinning, Knows Spring's waxing, Winter's waning. It realizes; I recognize. So too with art As pieces languish, Some we banish As too outlandish; Some are lost At our great cost; Some are found Underground, In a cave On frescoes walls, In attic, cellar, Flea market stalls. A sonnet found In some distant shire, Or ten words Of wisdom We retired; Banished today, Tomorrow admired. We realize; We recognize Not all our work Can inspire, When buried in The hit pismire.
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Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
The Pismire
She shakes her **** When I get home; Does everything To get the bone. She realizes; I recognize. The new born eyes Me so intently; I return the gaze Just as gently. She realizes; I recognize. The battered bird With feathers thinning, Knows Spring's waxing, Winter's waning. It realizes; I recognize. So too with art As pieces languish, Some we banish As too outlandish; Some are lost At our great cost; Some are found Underground, In a cave On frescoes walls, In attic, cellar, Flea market stalls. A sonnet found In some distant shire, Or ten words Of wisdom We retired; Banished today, Tomorrow admired. We realize; We recognize Not all our work Can inspire, When buried in The hit pismire.
francie-lynch
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francie-lynch
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
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