GAIL ENTREKIN : Edinburgh
KIM WELLIVER : Epiphany Among Oranges and Blue Bowls
JAN O. HANSEN : Diary of an Eight Years Old Boy (Rewritten)
POETRYREPAIRS v12.08:087
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
poetry from new and established poets and essays on writing


All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge




for mature audience over 18 BACK
Edinburgh Epiphany Among Oranges and Blue Bowls Diary of an Eight Years Old Boy (Rewritten)  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

GAIL ENTREKIN
Edinburgh
Caught in the net of your illness with its fibers of fear, as we walked the cobblestones in Edinburgh, the rainy steps, you slowed down, held back, an almost immovable presence behind us, making us step and again wait when all that was bright, all the colors, shops with their baskets of woolen scarves, men in kilts with feathers in their caps, piping in the streets, tourists in their Uggs and awkward raincoats, were all around us: movement, sound, color. We wanted to see it all: the heather and the misty grey green hills of Aberdeen and Inverness, the lochs of music and myth, spread below us, the isles of strange and lonely birds. We couldn't feel your aching eyes. We kept forgetting how inside your head there were clouds, a smudged lens, and you couldn't get your bearings, left us to struggle with maps, find the Starbucks and the castle. You left us in charge by default, and we didn't want the job, wanted you back leading on in your striped red scarf, your Scottish cap, your firm and certain compass showing the way, your smile, clear-eyed, familiar.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.08:087
link to poetryrepairs
I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian





FIND home

Edinburgh Epiphany Among Oranges and Blue Bowls Diary of an Eight Years Old Boy (Rewritten)  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

KIM WELLIVER 
Epiphany Among Oranges and Blue Bowls
Among oranges and blue bowls comes morning epiphany; thoughts of you like a ribbon of young birds, brief, faultless, wholly bright multitudes born of flowers or words plucked like laughter from the air. Not conceived of woodland bells, blue as accusations shorn from forest floors, you spring from certain flowers, stalwart Hyacinth, domesticated Rose, with no wild, unruly habit, or throttling vines. Pressed between time-glossed pages memory resurrects you, sure as April dubs the sleeping seed Lazarus, wakens willow to catkins, I savor you as you were, new, untested. Dimensional now, Saturday drowsed in our bed, you await me, blurred as last night's vowels. Still, I linger here, dangle fingers beneath the faucet rush, drinking the memory of your words, like fruits palpable musk, sweeter than the thing it represents. I try to shape our words unsaid. Barefoot, I pad up the stair to you, ache for what I've left behind, the lank ramble of Columbine, the velvet rub of pussy willow fingertips. In their stead I have your expectations, your heart a cunning artifact, like secaturs, or a calyx of stone. Wild birds, exquisite as the pain of your absence, fill the empty places with eggs, curves like small bright snails.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.08: 087
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato




guidelines INDEX
Edinburgh Epiphany Among Oranges and Blue Bowls Diary of an Eight Years Old Boy (Rewritten)  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

JAN O. HANSEN
Diary of an Eight Years Old Boy (Rewritten)
They haven't got guns in heaven only knives to peel apples with and when not eating they have to keep them out of sight to avoid awakening violent thoughts in newcomers. God has got a gun, given to him of the producer of James Bond movies, he often toys with it pretending to be a gunslinger in a western movie while waiting for his seraphs to give their daily reports. When it rains, here on earth, angels are having a bath, lately they have been bathing a lot, wish they would stop. Once I picked up a chewed chewing gum from the pavement and put it in my mouth, later my sister wanted it and I hit her over the head with one of her dolls. That was because the devil had licked on the gum too and given me evil thoughts. It's difficult to be a boy only when I try to sit still and read a book is God pleased with me, when I feel like playing and be naughty it is because the devil is egging me on. Wish God had a bit more sense of fun, once he had mother says and that was when I was born. Don't know what she means by that.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.08: 087
GAIL ENTREKIN : Edinburgh
KIM WELLIVER : Epiphany Among Oranges and Blue Bowls
JAN O. HANSEN : Diary of an Eight Years Old Boy (Rewritten)
ad9-paypal
Not a state organ: POETRYREPAIRS accepts no monies from federal, state, or local governments. We relie on readers like you.
Please contribute to maintain POETRYREPAIRS online. DONATE
free counters NAVIGATION for mature audience over 18
BACK | FIND| guidelines | home INDEX |

submit editor@[sitename]