"editions" poems
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
I think perhaps as a writer, we seek the adventure, the unknown, the destructive, not only to know we are alive but to know what it is to live. We live fast, we love without restraint, with impulsive desire. Are we the tortured, the wounded, the broken, abused. We have lived a thousand lives, loved a million times. We dream, we idealise, we fall in love unintentionally, we make mistakes, we endure deep suffering and we fall to the hands of lust within a heartbeat. We choose to show our ******* our ***** our hearts or our souls. We refuse to sell our mind, to which we must always remain held to. Our body is a vessel, one of productivity made victim to abuse. It's such neglect, despair, that leaves us enveloped in patterns of trauma and deeply embedded psyache. Once touched, our bodies remember as an elephants mind always will. We are tainted, scarred, stained by another's love, lust, cheating, lying, crying, kissing, losing, dreaming. We are the risk takers, the ones who dare step into the unknown and often don't adhere to rules and regulations of societal ideals. We crave love. We crave endless excitement. We crave the adrenalin rush of a new lover. We don't settle. Wanderlust writes us. Each journey shapes us, choosing a new direction, experimenting with style, fiction, autobiographical tones. Landscapes colour our pages, pollute the rooms with a myriad of paints, smoking out those who don't endure, slaves to the written word, a pledge to keep reading pages of paper, dusty from step ladder high book shelves. Finding joy in limited first editions, autographed and locked behind glass doors. Fairy tales whispered by Hans Christian Andersen - The Snow Queen in a pop up book laced with glitter and scintillation. Falling into stories, Alice's rabbit hole, lost to liquor saying drink me. The young ingénue, naïve and shy, her first role acting, embodying the spoken word through the masters written script.
© Sia Jane
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Pixelated bitmap e-mares
Digitized be mementos cached
Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware
Transfers recurrent electric draughts
The bitrate of virtual seduction
Intrusively hacks my bones
Taste be my lips of data eruption
Elicited from her tone
Physique a stimulating software
Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks
A gem society deemed quite rare
Though she possessed a vibrant bark
Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle
'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust
She moans in esoteric riddles
Keen I decode them whilst I ******
Pizazz eclipsing our veins
A billion megabytes colliding
Satiated we crash free of rein
Unforeseen servers uniting
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
Through all this strife
We create life
It's not wrong or right
It's humanity's plight
Whether it's with a wife
Or a stranger
We create life
Despite danger
There is a new addition
He could end repetition
Of negative patterns
And social ladders
But there is a competition
Between the new editions
Of positive versus negative
He'll be the one ahead of it
In a world plagued with stabbings
By the greedy money grabbing
Not to mention the beastly bombings
That endear retribution wronging
And elusive peace longing
There is a birth
Amongst death
That makes it worth
That first breath
Which provides hope in promise and potential
When they could be the positive differential
That could change this planet
And the hearts made of granite
We are born screaming
And never stop
We find ways of teaming
To be cops
Imposing our will on others
Through fascist force
There are many ways to cover
How this ruins discourse
But I sense a new sheriff in town
Our old ways he'll bury in the ground
He might be one or two now
But he'll change the world and I don't know how
For he brings hope
To a world with none
He helps me cope
A compassionate son
He'll make the world brighter
By not being a fighter
In a world of strife
He'll create life
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
Self,
centered,
watching the world burn.
This calm is maintained by
expelling air in between each blink.
Glass is far in sight,
glasses cracked
and not foreseen,
because I'm not a seer.
Blanketed in ignorance,
wrapped: up tight.
Shelf this selfishness, I'm told.
So I consider this advice.
Rearranging the paperbacks.
Misplacing the first editions.
All the math in the world; variables
do not ease understanding
of long division.
So I'm left not right,
have never been alright,
and that is why being centered
is crucial for survival.
That is why becoming adaptable
isn't laughable
while watching the world burn.
It's having a cold disposition
to withstand the heat.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
Pictographs concoct
Quaint flavors
An appetite blooms
Ginger locks descend
Passion skates
A micro death sparks
Pixels synthesize
Collections
Of synchronized whines
Lips laced with temptation
Eyes descending sunsets
Elements of resolution
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
eight years on,
she, airplane borne,
takeoff - a minute from,
texts a parting thot
"love you madly"
you can't recall ever
that prescient précis designation
on any earlier editions
of your other old lovers resumes
this tidbit of reckless abandon
moves fury fast,
direct to the top of the list
madly, manly madness,
when you man,
allow the crossover to occur,
when boundaries twixt honesty and
sensibility
are declared
voided laws
when the white cloth napkin of careful sanity knocked, swept to the floor
maddening love rawest realized
conceded
in madness, completion is indivisible,
indivisible, completion is madness
manly madness
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Forget about how Hollywood defines it
Don't let a commercial insist what product creates it
You cannot purchase your sense of worth
Cosmetic surgery,
I've contemplated it myself
But who is to say exactly what perfect features are?
Don't feel defeated because you think you'll never compare
Don't feel like you have been given less than others
For you are who you are
Nobody owns the true book on beauty
It comes in various editions
And shines greatest from within
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
Supernatural
Beams dazzle
Illustrations shape
A character speaks
Pleasantries
Quakes of fear occur
Lullabies eject
From her lips
As she pirouettes
Such color spectrums
Radiate
To mold a queen
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Frozen within coloured novelties
Elegant fashion strikes tears of joy
Flawless solace veils mass poverty
Through ****** eyes we appear coy
Bewildered they bleed of apathy
Visually we appear strangers
Oblivious to such telepathy
A streak of electric danger
Revere the brilliant colours
Petite a theatrical delight
As unified in passion we muster
The enchanted rainbow knights
Your black and white hunger we yearn
To collect and radically refine
Eliminate all doubt and concern
A narrow cubicle undefined
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
I see the cover of the book of you my friend
with its catchy graphics
and beckoning fonts and title,
but how could I truly know the pages
of the stories that speak inside?
If the unique and essential you
were bound into a book,
I might scan the index,
or watch a Talk Show interview.
I could pull a bio off the shelf,
and trace the paths from who you were
to who you might become
sipping tea in my bentwood rocker
and who knows,
you might do the same for me.
My curiosity is keen my friend,
because our chapters are interwoven.
The air we breathe and our chosen paths
have sewn our lives together.
The common ground we walk
is crisscrossed by our footprints.
If I blink for just an instant
I notice that new pages have been
appended to your book.
Even the cover has changed
and so it is with mine.
So I own without regret or sorrow that
I can never know the book of you (or me)
whose infinite shelves of once-told stories
await some distant final chapter.
September, 2013
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
If you’ve never had your heart broken,
listen closely.
But first, just know that I hope you marry
the first man that you kiss,
I hope that he never runs claws
through your chest and into your heart.
I pray he never even comes close
to scratching the finest layer
of protective skin around your organs;
and that you will never have to know
what it feels like
to have another person
slowly scar you with words.
Listen closely,
loving someone is more than a risk.
Do you know how a drive-by works?
Do you know what it’s like to hit a shoal
so that a peaceful cruise
turns to mayhem?
Your heart is the victim
but he’s not always the criminal -
remember that.
Don’t ever even think about thinking
that you did something wrong,
even if you did.
If your heart is torn into tiny shreds,
that’s punishment enough.
Don’t burn pictures and bridges
and his favourite scarf.
You don’t need to forget,
you need to forgive.
It will dully ache inside of your chest for
months, and months, and maybe years,
but you will be okay,
and you will open up your heart again,
but be careful, because heartbreak
does not get easier
over time.
Do not kiss boys who give you attention,
kiss boys who give you love, and limited editions
of Pride and Prejudice.
Everyone is fragile;
do not break boys’ hearts
because you are bitter.
Your body will heal itself
over time.
Be careful, and loving,
and forgiving,
and do not avoid heartbreak
by withholding love -
love is a risk and understand that heartbreak
is the worst case scenario
of a drive by shooting,
or a cruise running aground.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
anywhere u go
its about what u do
who u know
what u have
take a piece
and one for the road
take and take
is all we do
judged like a book
every single day
in one glance
no second thoughts
hardcover hollywood
special editions
and just for dummies rule
those text book kings
and things of the past
replaced by
sefl-help gurus
with a thirst for power
history books burn
and dictionaries die
bibles and korans
wage war for deeds
written in oil
more precious than blood
lawbooks lie
with family trees
while notebooks fill
with pointless lives
but my story is written
with my sweat
and tears
filled with pages and pages
of love and fears
i dont need to be
hardcovered
reprinted
bound up
and edited
forget the colors
and the revamped image
no motion pictures
just a story
on my shelf
the last of them all
the Paperback Boy.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Wineglass
An hour to midnight
low lit lights
gentle undertones
stained clouds of moisture
in a glass of wine
as thick
as ripe layers of fog.
hums of symphonies,
swells of low pitched voices,
crescendos of conversation.
murmurs, whispers of fine China
and the newest editions of
oil paintings from Italy
Midnight at the gallery
Once
clear glass, stained with
lipstick and breath --
Laughter, light and
undertones of ripe berry
lingered on the tip of glass.
eyes wandering
over canvases of
lavish art
While stained clouds
of moisture
are as thick as
ripe layers of fog.
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 1:10 AM UTC
The college kids still pump out poems;
my heroes haven't published a book in years.
The academics are moving to visual arts
kerning letters on the page, adding artist statements.
Fuego en juventud. Sabiduría en viejo.
Passion fades with age, I suppose. A symptom of
the cult of happiness.
And I love to read poems
from twenty-somethings who just want to get ******
I picture my red pen exciting them as I destroy
their fine-tuned metaphors, all muddled with conflicting allusion,
as if juxtaposition alone adds meaning.
In school, it was all Cezanne and hydrogen jukebox birdsongs,
and equally interesting but useless adjective strings.
The academics are doing the same, but with form.
It bores us, don't they know?
Fuego en juventud. Sabiduría en viejo.
**** these kids for having such easy means to publication.
I read their journals, their magazines, their "editions"
online, vivid, vomiting color and opinion.
I long for publishing classified ads and
scribbled chalk portraits of the women I loved
and the twenty-somethings who just wanted to get ******
and reflections of how I never mastered either craft.
I long to rub the ink off newsprint in my fingers,
smudge the words on the page and ***** my hands,
watch the chalk run into the red brick
during ten-minute monsoons, smell the library's adobe,
light a cigarette and remember that the stacks are filled
with ages of greater work than these ******* kids...
and these ******* academics.
Greater than me.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
I built a sand castle around myself
I spend hours on each intricate detail
I built the castle the way I dreamed as a child
I made sure it had all those hidden doors
The ones that weave intermittently from one wing to the next
In the tunnels are where I lose myself with my imagination
The castle keeps me safe from the bad guys
I always have a place to hide within these walls
As I lug myself about crawling on my knees
I drag a life time of sorrows worries and needs
They come in journals
Those hard backed limited editions
The beautiful ones you get scared to write in
Because you don't want to damage their perfection
You pick them up from the second hand book store
The Strand on the corner of East 12th Street
You, your journal and a months' worth of reading
You walk into Books of Wonder
From the days you were read to at night as a child
I always believed that stories last a life time
That even in those worn down books
Oh those beautiful ones where you find a love letter
From decades ago
And you carry that book and pass over
The $2 and the stories live on
And the stories of those who bought the book live on
My castle was built with my fair hands
It's weathered almost all storms
I let no one in and it wasn't until
The day that I did
That the ocean of emotion I carried within
Flooded out and drowned us all
Me, those innocent characters and the books
The precious precious books, soaked and blurred
Out to sea we went
Books floating
Hearts bleeding
Bodies freezing
© Sia Jane
---
“We read to know that we are not alone.”
William Nicholson
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
Cast be thy fate to live in exile
Bated be your fair fluffed fleece
Face of said avenue beguiled
Ebbed a carmine masterpiece
Ebony landscapes you adorn
The eyes of thousands you have hooked
Whines sharp replicas of thorns
Question mark shaped be such nooks
Appeased the ice queen had appeared
Fabricating jagged thrills of mirth
A concept quite eerie, yet linear
'Til done apart by spineless dearth
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
Least said and nothing to mend
nothing to defend and no one to lend you an ear
and light continues to bend around the posts of the day,so whatever you say is distorted,reported by magnates controlling the press and however much less there'll be more, and the implausible causes of any decisions are picked over by vultures and revised into later editions.
Free press
get your free press depression read about free press aggression and say what you will,we'll all read our fill until we can all read no more and no less than no more.
Barons in Wapping now moved
and Wapping will be another new century, of debatable consumables sold in charcuteries and pharmacies and no more free press to distress the dressing rooms in boom towns and where once printers stood they will now sell returnable (deposit required) wedding gowns
it's no wonder I feel down and need a little lift as I sift through the remnants of yesterdays news,my own views irrelevant as I ride on another elephant all painted in white
another bending of light which we fall for.
There's always more than is less,
more to depress and distress me and drinking Darjeeling leaves me with the feeling that it could always be more
another front page to enrage me
another bent light to distract
and if you don't know it we're all being attacked by the news that we pay for
I think that's a bit more than I can take
I can fake things myself and don't need some gnome or some elfin in Tooting or Fleet Street to sell me a rag that tells me of nothing that I want to know.
So I'm going
We're all being snowed by the establishment gurus whose raison d'etre is only to abuse us
I've had enough of their bullshine
if light's going to bend I'll make sure that it's my light that glows
and not some nosepicking,cityslicking, lickspittling critter who couldn't see beyond his...
..well enough of that
I'm out of the next deal
if you want to get real you will be too.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
you told me you loved me
you told me "you are mine"
you told me you'd love me forever
you told me "you belong to me"
you told me I was your alpha & your omega
you told me "you are why I was born a man, to love you"
you told me you were going to marry me
you told me "I can never love another now"
you told me you'd never let me leave you
you told me "I'll put you in a box in the ground, before I'll let you go"
you told me you'd never hurt me
you told me "I'm going to **** you"
you told me you loved me.
love is not ownership
love is not obsession
love is not violence
love is not suppression
love is not breaking bones
love is not silence
love is not feeling alone
you saw me like you see
one of your treasured
first editions
a thing to show off
to brag about
to your mates
a thing to pick up
and put down
to keep locked up
to covet
a thing you own.
I loved you
when you were
my loving lost boy of the morning
I loved you
when at loves first bloom
you were sweet
passionate
gentle
kind
I loved you
when you made me feel safe
I loved you
before the strong arms
that held me close
broke my bones
and broke my heart
broke my faith
and tore it all apart.
J.C.
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
They say cigarrette & alcohol are something which humanity has innovated,
Intelligent - huh?
Every breath I breathe
Is often full of offensive smoke,
Or the ****** stench of *****
Humanity - yes - humanity has let itself be so prone to addictions,
They love to smoke - have ***** in their backyards,
And to have wilder editions of what used to make them human,
What differentiated them from other wild animals.
So evenly widespread is this diluted evil,
That I myself feel so tempted to try them once,
But I control myself knowing that trying once would get me addicted,
Once and just once more - Once and just once more!
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
There's crescent moons under his eyes and sleepy hollows in his cheekbones. Nobody ever wore emaciated the way he did, skin hanging from his frame like 2014's furs. Forget Halloween parties - I was head underwater at his very throat, neck deep in Adam's apples. Peek-a-boo ribs playing dam to his darkly violent blood that flows in currents around my star-strickenness.
Newspapers have nothing on the editions of his expressions
and the dirt underneath those fingernails is sufficient for harvesting a future family of four.
A naked body mummified in yellow caution tape...
um, what's the word for people who are sexually invested in criminals?
I think I should leave now.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Policies defined by the police, homosexuality, corruption by employees. Abuse of the pharmacy - Mom comes from ****** and demons of Azaz. This is the city that the dogs of Moab **** and the land; The accessories are security tools for terrorism. Homosexuality, to the doctor's particular conviction. After the outbreak of the Alhambra. The symptoms of the disease are established and paralysis begins. There are also changes in the city. Female mafia and other ****** Backup copies are protected. Such homosexuality, security device. Emergency options, algebra licenses, favorite editions, Moab city records. Local configurations to protect these devices. The dangers of homosexuality are important. Military circles won: after the wars. In the environment, cancel it. Other Country Country Country Morcha ***** and countries Country Suspicious patterns. Police, employees, prostitutes, merchants, depression, night, the devil says that wine is a city; Average gay, prostitution, prostitution and country. More security improvements. The police of this device protected the fear of homosexuality, the weakness of the faith; hospitals; The post-traumatic problems of the destruction of the devil by the Algerians. Positive changes in the cities ****** and visitors. Young mafia couple. ******* and country The police stopped to ask questions about the police. The danger of decadence, homosexuality, depends on the disease; Common drugs Post-traumatic and air-conditioned problems. Algebra, the evolution of the ********** friends and repairs; Mafia area. Country of prostitution and ****** Additional benefits for the police, homosexuality, veterans protection. Impact drugs after the alsemeera. Satanism after the event. Change of disabled and rebuilt city. Fornicadoresputo and adulterers; The police killed the police, more security. these drugs, corruption, psychology; Alzeihmer is a problem of post-traumatic Satanism. Gypsy Depression The intriguing private attraction that attracts gypsies is like two blind gypsy guards who seek the best possible entertainment in the future. The foundations of the mafia, other police and security forces. Applications, terrorism, homosexuality, faith. Hospitals after his death,
The Alhambra had withdrawn from the brothers.
Prostitution and violence have changed.
Who and the changes in the city. queen
of the Mafia, health and the land; Next device.
Police wish these catastrophic, catastrophic
protections, Homosexuality, security. ************
Emergency situations, algebra, change.
Pants and communication of municipal
books. Tips - The spaces of prostitution.
****** and Moabitas in the front coverage
For diseases and the guards of prostitutes.
So Danger the dangers of homosexuality.
they are motivated by corruption; The illness
Hospital, parasites, other directed products.
Employment Women and the gods.
of Mordecai. For the moment, we propose.
The next source. Of services, homosexuality,
Due to corruption to the harmful effects
of Come. Of the ****** of Azaz and the
demons. This is the city where Moab
is located. Love with the ground and other
policemen are lost. Improvements, security
tools for homosexuality. Of the terrorists,
a condemnation especially to the doctor.
After the beginning of the Alhambra the
relationship between the rooster ***** and
paralysis. Start With changes in the city.
Mafia female and other copy. The security zones
are protected Such A device of the security
of homosexuality. Emergency license options,
algebraic acceptance. The change that is changing
in the city - Moab. It is cut for the protection
of these devices. The dangers of homosexuality
They are important. The victories won:
after the effects Environmental drinks, revoke.
Another city of Morcha and his suspicious
Country Blood, ****** Cars, and more.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
My god
It CLACKS like a
************
Every key
Combusts like a homicide bullet
Hacks like a machete in 100 degree
Heat
Every word brings
Guilt,pleasure
The neighbors will surely
Pound on the walls
Going insane
From the power of
The typewriter.
I'm 24 in 2015
I've never touched one of these
Things.
When I brought it up to the counter
Of the 2nd hand store
The clerk was a few years younger
Than me
He looked at me like I was catshit
Crazy.
I also bought 2 1940s editions of
The Bronte sisters
That did not help my
Questionable sanity...
I like this old thing
Every key is ******
And you must live with all your
Mistakes.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
The Dictionary.
The library of words.
The keep. The record.
A friend and helper to all.
The place of meaning,
By its very definition.
The book of many editions,
In numerous forms.
Calm, lies the water under the Bridge,
As the Ox laps from the gleaning Ford.
The Web aligns the stars,
As the Long man reclines,
Searching for the meaning of a word.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 8:00 PM UTC