| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." | "POETRYrepairs v07.11:129 |
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| MARTIN JERVIS A Peaceable Passing In my grandfather's allotment days In cold frames and hot earth beds, Grew chlorophyll green and carotene red, Vegetable all shapes with Mendelian genes And cholesterol ignorance amongst the Caterpillar chewings and wasp bitten apples. Old men in a peace of missed bullets shared Pipefuls of Redbreast, Four Square and Gallagher's Rich Dark Honeydew, a fog Of tobacco gas and visions of Somme, Passchendale, Flanders and Ypres. They watched the slow food rising, Safe distanced in a patchwork hut, Sitting deeply on a faded sofa, soft Flowered, with its guts hanging out And springs thrust forwards like barbs. Watching rising bubbles, hen soaked Manure, permeating unmasked nostrils, A Rhode Island Red fights all comers, Bayonet-beaked, outside his wired run. The slow food grew high in fresh fields, Strings of onions hung side by side With bunches of drying parsnips on dead straw And they dug large white King Edward's from Trenches that were not full of men. The Oxford English Dictionary defines REPAIR: Concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; resort, frequent or habitual going; making one's way; to arrive; to dwell; to heal, to cure, to recover; to renew; (AND!) to fix to original condition. In each sense, www.poetryrepairs.com |
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| from poetryrepairs MM.11:125 ERIN C. HASTINGS "Off With Her Head!" The first time I saw him, I knew. His hair flowed like the Ganges River, I became entangled in it and his nails on my back were oh, so inviting. He would purr in my ear and burrow in my neck with his cold nose, whispering riddles into my ear until I fell asleep with my book, not a page read. I didn't fall into the rabbit hole, I went looking for him. He kept disappearing when I spoke of litter boxes and cat beds. I needed to know the answer to his puzzle, I would not be ignored. I found him perched on a tree, engaged in conversation with Five and Seven, he was always a swinger. He saw me coming and started that majestic grin but my knees didn't become weak nor did my mind start to drift. I saw red and he knew I figured him out, just a retired magician with only one trick. But I do still welcome the pat, pat, pat of his paws on my breasts. Poem, © 2000-2007, ERIN C. HASTINGS (all rights reserved; To copy or translate this poem, please contact the poet) Site design, © 2000-2007, John HorvathJr., www.poetryrepairs.com (All Rights Reserved). |
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