| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
| POETRYrepairs v08.06:069 |
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| --- copyright KATE LaDEWKATE LaDEW Obscurite`, sans la musique (Dark, with no music ] True things are hardly ever real. You believe because it is fantastic. We are all fantastic, jumping from life to life, no one glances back. We effect, we cause-- There was wailing in the air and the streets were wet with tears. Men, white as snow, vanished thousands with a step of their boot. We are all fantastic: a man has missed his best friend's funeral. The paralyzed hand hangs useless as he kneels to statues, the sick hand clings to its mate, forming a cross the dead cannot see. He loved him. Jumping from life to life: I wanted you once, this is true. But you failed me. Don't you understand, I can't remember before. How could I have wanted you, it seems wrong even to think it. You let me down, and that is important. No one glances back: She smiles at him through the glass as he drives home. His eyes veer from the road only an instant, landing on the car fender in the next lane. Words rushed through her head. I could spend a whole life loving him if he'd only look at me. The car speeds up, vanishes in a sea of chrome. Her smile has failed. She wonders if he understands what happiness has been lost. She wonders if he knows, this is important. We effect: The wheelchair is state of the art, and it is not as bad as it could be. She had been in love once, because she was young, and wore short silk skirts and high, high heels. He shot her because he was in love and how could she want anyone but him? He is dead and she is not and this is important. Her wheelchair is state of the art, and her skirts are long, and her shoes are flat, and her grandchild rushes up. Huge hoop earrings, smeared lipstick, high, high heels. I used to wear these once. Bright red ones, but I had them in every color. I would dance and never lose my balance. Smile. But that was a long time ago. We cause: There are flames and ashes and everyone goes home early to watch in safety. a message blinks red. Close your eyes, it's only voices now. I called-- I wanted you to know-- and this is important-- I wanted you to know, I loved you. In all the world, you moved me. The red light blinks again. Do you want to hear more? There are others who thought of you before they died. They couldn't let you down. They remembered you. The world is a carousel, dark, with no music. 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 |
| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
| poetryREpairs v08.06:069 |
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| STEVE KENT --- copyright STEVE KENT--- To learn more on what defenses we can put in affect to help us be less of a target to a identity thief, you can visit STEVE KENT's web site at www.worldendeavors.biz/idtheft. There is an E-Book STEVE compiled with more information constituting identity theft and what you can do to reduce the possibility of you being victimized, and if you are victimized, some steps to help you recover. poetryREpairs.com welcomes your essay on a topic related to poetry. |
| "Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!" |
| poetryrePAIRs v08.06:069 |
| BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | LYN LIFSHIN That First Weekend with Jesus It was a miracle how my eyes went from red and puffy to those of a doe's. And he did it. It was his touch, how he held me and entered me. After the third time, as we sipped honey and tea, he told me his words were the throbbing in my own heart, (not to mention a little lower). I was vulnerable, true, but it seemed he knew everything, got in deep as those scabies mites that we'd have to boil blankets and coat ourselves with white salve to get rid of. Since it was Christmas, when I first came to his rooms, pine and candles glowed, light like some other worldly light around his body and everything was stars. We ate figs and hazelnuts near the fire as the animals made a circle around the house: deer, pheasants, wild turkeys, fox and horses with the cats and dogs nesting on the bed. He played Layla and Lou Reed, stood up on a table as if it was an altar or a platform in some Roman square singing along with Jimmy Buffet. He told me amazing stories about whales coming up the Hudson with a man living inside one, how a wick of blubber would burn 700 days and nights, of syringa in the front yard so sweet one petal perfumes a whole country. He told me he planted the Rose of Sharon because he knew my real name was Rosalyn years before I was born. It seemed incredible but his words were something else. There was a story about an invisible army with horses and chariots. to say that first Christmas was supernatural isn't even enough. Later I'd scrub dried spaghetti off plates but that whole first week, Oh Lord. I couldn't believe so many Sundays would be with him, driving downstate with my just washed hair to the house without walls, torn glass in the yard glitter. So many Sundays kneeling in his yellow robe, apple wood burning, to have him do what to me what he wanted me to do to him under the old blue quilts the swollen cats would have their babies in as we all waited for what would happen to happen --- copyright LYN LIFSHIN. "That First Weekend with Jesus" was previously published on poetryrepairs 01.02:018 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors |
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