| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
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| KIRBY WRIGHT Son of Crab I am a sick man lying on a twin bed listening to rain. I have learned cold showers in a solar house inhabited by crabs. Father crab sits in a wheelchair clicking his remote. Mother crab devours mahimahi out of a doggie bag. I have the maid's room. The maid left years ago. The crabs go to bed at midnight, him in his hospital bed with a view of the red ti garden, her in the king they once shared. They would claw one another when the salmon curtains were drawn. Now they scuttle through the house searching for water, entertainment, dead things to eat. Outside, rain floods the street. My skin hardens as I write --- ABOUT KIRBY WRIGHT --- Kirby has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and is a past recipient of the Ann Fields Poetry Prize, the Academy of American Poets Award, the Browning Society Award for Dramatic Monologue, and Arts Council Silicon Valley Fellowships in Poetry and The Novel. BEFORE the CITY, Kirby's first book of poetry, has just been published by Lemon Shark Press REPAIR: Concourse or confluence of people at or in a place - Oxford English Dictionary |
| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
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| STEVE GILLMAN --- ABOUT--- STEVE GILLMAN has been playing with poetry for thirty years. He and his wife Ana created the game "Deal-A-Poem," which can be accessed for free at: http://www.dealapoem.com poetryREpairs.com welcomes essays on any topic related to poetry.. |
| "Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!" |
| poetryrePAIRs v08.02:014 |
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| BISHOP FALLON Waterfall Peek through the haze, I realize Where I am, here, now... The water falls gently, Ending long journey. Once a calm puddle Wrenched from comfortable home Forward, picking up speed To plung to depths unrealized To the rocks below. Nature throws itself around The green feeling; comfortable Stars in the sky. And the rose speaks, Amidst the resplendant sight, Of past and present And future, Of pain unbearable And broken wings mending. What secrets lie hidden here? What force exists in wait? What motivation moves waters From comfortable home To depths unrealized To the rocks below... And like the waterfall, I speak Pouring out everything Of past and present And future, Ripped from comfortable home To worlds unrealized To the fall again, Gently pick up speed And crash into a thousand pieces To the rocks below... Opposites, yet Two of a kind, we were. Tattered and beaten, Unforgettable loss, And only time to pave the way Under the tapestry of stars In the glow of passing planes Outlined by the solitary moon. Two hearts, reviving Side by side, to the whisper Of falling rain. copyright 1998, from Summation, by Bishop Fallon; reprinted from poetryREpairs MM.02 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' |
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