Open Poetry #46 |
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In Her Honor |
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threadbear Senior Member
since 2008-07-10
Posts 817Indy ![]() |
It was a parade in her honor where confetti blew like milkweed people huddled in buffalo masses and doves dove at her tiny feet. a stick with an apple impaled upon it waved bravely in her young hands. She smiled into the blue sky canvas that was just an opening into heaven. In clothes too old for her age she instantly was her own aspiration wanting to be the beauty with parade wave hand cupped smiling to people she did not know. God always seems to appear when dreams become wishes and wishes become the willing. This was the : if If she was she still could be the first girl on the moon. |
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© Copyright 2010 Jeff Feezle - All Rights Reserved | |||
Eusta B. Mae Senior Member
since 2010-05-03
Posts 903 |
This is wonderful! you capture the essence of imaginaton. ebm |
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threadbear Senior Member
since 2008-07-10
Posts 817Indy |
oh my grandchildren again providing a muse for musing. I always pester them about what is in their dreams. Always wondered what little girls dreamed about, not ever being one myself. Thank you, Eusta B for what eusta b. Jeff |
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Earl Brinkman Senior Member
since 2010-03-03
Posts 1183Osaka, Japan |
What begins as a very good description of a parade turns inward to the dreams of a little girl. And what dreams they are! Thanks for sharing this gem. |
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threadbear Senior Member
since 2008-07-10
Posts 817Indy |
Hey and Hi, Earl, and thank you, always for your be the star for just a day. That ain't a bad thing to aspire to. Hope you are doing well, and thanx again Jeff |
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Bastet Member
since 2010-05-07
Posts 246 |
This poem has a mysterious, oneiric quality which seems to me to be a new element in your poetry. I love it. Dare I compare it to a Chagall painting? Some really wonderful phrases like: "buffalo masses" and blue sky canvas." Bravo! |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Bastet is spot on with the kudos on imagery. Although what I think I like best about this poem is your response about your grandchildren being muses. Aren't they just the best? ![]() |
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