| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
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![]() BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | --- copyright CHRISTINA PACOSZCHRISTINA PACOSZ Inside a Lava Tube, the Big Island a birth canal of a giant being. Lava cooled into shapes: bats, turtles, fish. Ontogenetic like a developing embryo. Cool, quiet cave, a cathedral closer to the molten heart - the mystery inside a prayer. The roots of a single ohia lead toward the dark while branches studded with lehua blossoms stretch to the clouds scudding past on the trades. a melting pot of myths: Yggdrasil, the tree of life, the Kiva, the cross. The blue belly button at the beginning before the word. 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. Oxford English Dictionary Barry University PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors
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| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
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| WILLIAM MEIKLE --- copyright WILLIAM MEIKLE poetryREpairs.com welcomes your essay on a topic related to poetry. |
| "Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!" |
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| --- copyright JANET I. BUCK. "Thick Pockets" was previously published on poetryREpairs 01.02:016JANET I. BUCK Thick Pockets Glowing comments of your eyes across my thighs and why's of fate-- seem diamonds that don't belong to me. A plastic leg, a set of dentures chewing on the job ahead. This struggle with its carat fire, maximized by missingness, is only a carrot poking up from prairie grass. A place where gardens take their roots when seeds of something find their wind. I'm lifting weights, slapping laps across the pool, pacing treadmills in the gym like fingernails across the board in classrooms of mortality. Nothing special, just some plain brown-wrapper triumph teething on decline and ebb. A rumble strip in specious skies for people with their limbs intact. I am the udder of a dairy cow milking motion's foamy worth. Nothing special, stubborn maybe, slightly transcendental heat. Like flames of ethyl alcohol, your burn is there, just colorless until some challenge brushing death-- some lethal grade of suffering arrests your body in an alley, pins its arms against some wall and picks thick pockets for its soul. 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' |
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