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there is a vastness here

where a small breeze,

the size of a decaying sorrow

wakes the cold again

which may be all that’s left of me.

where a diamond pale haze of stars goes on eternal

like sound that has found a final silent shape

on a black sky where it means everything

It cannot speak off.

it’s empty out here, and cold.

cold enough to reconcile

the frozen cries, the kidnapped voices

and the silences that move

with certain cadaveric contractions

along the frozen emptiness

and In the morning when I look out

the previous evening remains

in its blank, cold, unforgiveness

even though I sang for them in

the eternal extensiveness of

the freezing cold, the stones

still cry with mouths opened wide

while the small icy wind and unsympathetic

moon subdue the apricot flowers,

Now the piercing cold day Is no longer enough

For all comprehension escapes me

suddenly jumps with fury hurling terrible hostilities to the sky,

as wandering ice spirits without homeland

begin to groan with a vast and vacant voice.

And frozen hearses, with muffled drums

and tragic music, slowly pass in my being

conquered, weeping, freezing

this atrocious iced and despotic place

plants its black flag in my soul

Now I do confess through boreal breath

I don’t think I will ever see the

Red Tulips again
Star BG Apr 23
We on Hello Poetry
and all sites of poetic nature
are a family.
We Bond with the best
Poe, Dickinson Whitman
Frost, Platt and Cummings
All those whose heart
expelled masterpieces
that world celebrates.
Who know how to tame the written word.

We are all lion tamers
where are pens are whips
and fortitude outweighs fear.

Grand Family, move over
I the poet is born
growing stronger everyday.

Move over for I claim
my place as you hug me
in ethers of forever.

The rest of the world
just doesn't see me yet.
But they will. They will.
More inspiration form Crazy Diamond Kristy  Thanks
Benjamin Feb 23
and just how far have you gone for the sake of your "camaraderie," my friend?

their half-glow hearts and prejudiced minds could have swallowed you whole,

or abandoned you, wit be-******, and genius be-******, you
might have died a pauper—

I hear they’d **** a man much more guarded than you, they might string him up,

tie his broken body to a fencepost, leave him ******,

satisfy a tyranny under the watchful eye of a loving God,

trade a boy in Laramie for a jet-black brutal odium,

**** a kid and wonder what his mother did to steer him wrong—

but still you wrote of calamus and of holding hands and handsome lovers,

still you gave us songs to sing back to our lovers, gentle songs,

despite the shame and censorship they cursed you with, despite

the threat that everything could be undone, despite the scripture,

well I must say, dear Good Gray Poet, before I fold my hand,

thank you, Walt, for giving us what you never had.
I take a breath and close my eyes with pride.
His comments seek a lodging in my soul;
The hurt I feel from all he spits, I hide.
He’ll never know he’s found my numb heart’s holes.

“Forever” was his biggest lie to me,
One word, a feeble promise left unkept.
My heart should learn the way his drums beat free.
I’m captive to the trebled tears I’ve wept.

Do you recall when Whitman said “Beat! Beat! Drums!”?
Too bad the drums could always beat, beat us.
At least I got kisses ‘tween rounds of ***.
But still, to him, I’d grown superfluous.

I simply craved some adult discussion.
I guess  he preferred to play his percussion.
Knit Personality Aug 2018
Solemn sweet pipes of de o'gan
     Heaven's music I've hyeahd play,
But I'll tell you somefin' truly
     Certain ez is Judgement Day:
Angels present at de service
     Ev'ry Sunday fo'd dey wings,
Fo'd dey wings an' listen quiet
     When Malindy sings.  

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