poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:018
DOUG PAUGH :No More Ass to Kiss
MICHAEL DAVID COFFEY : Passages
ASHOK GUPTA : Dadaji
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DOUG PAUGH 
No More Ass to Kiss
If my job the rest of my days is to sit here and collect a smooth embrace, breeze, then let it be like it's always been. Break out those old dusty gloves and let me have just one last punch-drunk blow at a time until life finally gives in and my deathly goal has boldly been achieved.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:018

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

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading




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MICHAEL DAVID COFFEY 
Passages
Wordless thoughts diffuse my conscious dream Like ink on blotting paper They diffuse Take form And shape the words that glide to my ears And slowly, methodically steal the moment Telling me who I am Taunting, tantalizing Stating the facts And questioning My existence   Thus day awakes from night's confusion The rambling dreams of yesterday and tomorrow Of other lives and parallel existences Surface Conglomerate Diffuse And question who I am   And  saying thus State, I am a life in place, racing, traveling, dreaming, fashioning An existence in this graying, whimpering madness This greed displaced convulsion of humanity Choking in its blind belief in material growth Its perversion  of the natural order   Wordless thoughts transcend my vision The outward inward messages ignored I move in measure to my dreams My inward outward dimensions Accepting my being Rejecting my doubts The antihero in a writhing, screaming world   The antihero, the faithless faith healer Communicating with myself Transcending order and conventional strife Dreaming my way through life in chaotic strides That leap the divides And defy the odds Challenge the commonality of unquestioned order And live in a solitary path of wordless thoughts My existence  

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:018

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ASHOK GUPTA 
Dadaji
Children would run behind Dadaji on a bicycle Children of the hut dwellers interspersed with those from the bungalows Dadaji on the bicycle a huge figure in black with days old salt-pepper  beard in a long flowing shirt hanging from behind the seat and white broad pajamas would paddle away on the same path day after day everyday They would scream and shout gleefully Dadaji Dadaji and chase him over long distances till he tired and balancing his bicycle on a foot took out from his pocket peppermints of bright colours and gave to the children. Hardly would he have started again they would scream unsatiated Dadaji  Dadaji teasing him till he was too far from home to follow This was forgotten and children went their ways I chanced upon Dadaji sitting on a charpoy outside a dilapidated hut I stopped uncertainly Da.. .Dadaji I hesitated He was paralysed on the right side and couldn't hear me so I said a little louder ..Dadaji my mouth close to his ear He turned to his side took out a peppermint and placed it in my hand I cried all the way home.


poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:018

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary



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DOUG PAUGH :No More Ass to Kiss
MICHAEL DAVID COFFEY Passages
ASHOK GUPTA : Dadaji

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