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| Open Poetry #9 |
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Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA 
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The homeless people that scan the urns for aluminum cans to recycle are the archeologists of our era. But all is in bloom,-- the flowers and ferns,-- the spring was designed by the allergists as the multi-million dollar advertisement to attract running noses and unknown poets. I too got caught in that enticement and now I wander through these streets alone and write down my memories. If I could just capture this breeze and convert it to verse, but I’m powerless. With the naked eye I lust, and crave like the bees to taste the flowers, or in reverse to be tasted like flowers. Bright blue skies immerse my thoughts and my senses and no pills or drops can prevent the watery eyes as the salty liquid slowly condenses, on chapped lips and white sheets,-- of paper and bedclothes. He who writes with tears, writes sincerely and it’s pleasure not labor,-- preserving in verse, the short, fragile years. Check out my poetry here: http://cafepoetry.com/stage1/andrey_kneller.htm#My%20Hamlet |
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| © Copyright 2000 Andrey Kneller - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Meadowmuse Member Elite
since 1999-12-27
Posts 3263 |
You have most accurately stated, so very poetically at that, the "why" of why we write. Such insight you display in this tale of truth! Wonderful! ~ Claire Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?......Henry David Thoreau |
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Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA |
Thank you Claire, I truly appreciate your comments... |
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