poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:057
RACHEALGRACE ADAMS : Cradle to the Grave
J.K. DURICK : Local
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Cradle to the Grave
Grandpa sat me on his knee, arms around me; we held his book. I remember the line, "from the cradle to the grave." "Grandpa, what does that mean?" "Child, a cradle rocks to a lullaby; mothers sing comfort to a new life. They raise their own and repeat their rocking, until it's time to exchange a cradle for a box. Cherubs line the path where people walk toward empty ground exchanging cradlesongs for hymns memorial. That, my child, is what 'from the cradle to the grave' means. We exchange one box for another living in between."

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:057

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

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

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Gene Pool
Here is how dead sperm seem proper--massed along one wall, mass of fate-completed souls that wait no longer, dream no more, yet smile some. This old petty chieftain from generations gone; already faded at the edges, the newest wedding group has members of its entourage entombed or becoming nameless unless, centered mid some mass along another wall--a cousin's face twice removed on aunty's side edges into consciousness--that looks like . then edges back toward namelessness. How comes this namelessness to an image in a photo kept and is that namelessness at all akin to some stranger's namelessness on some city street. Unlike unto that degree that bitterness engendered it. Here is that sister who married ill, already nameless to the centered couple's seed; there is that imprisoned uncle, "heretical Crescence," and such bad sheep as have adjectives stamped upon the observation of them--informal fallacies hidden in the shadows of each snapshot smile; Imagine someone saying to them, "good that you could come," and just before the imagemaker commands "stand firm" one brother refuses out of an all-but-forgotten affront the other brother's hand in friendship. Almost a fight breaks out and they are separated so no longer is there this family left and that, on the right; one family now the wedding photo seems to suggest. Almost a fight in every family photo on this wall. Almost a fight. All ten to forty of them were alive, bound together with measured or unmeasured time, reasoned or unreasoned motivation, perhaps a willingness to die for each other, dead now, or dying. On this wall amassed,
they surely slowly die, losing their meaning. "Who is that, Daddy?" Shall I Lie?

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:057

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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Let's make everything smaller, easier to handle, like cell phones and laptops, like radios and TVs before them. We could shrink things down to a size we can put in a pocket or we can hold in one hand, spin around and observe in detail, really know them and what they are about, more manageable and understandable. It's all a matter of scale. The world is too much with us and too much for us to deal with. Economics and politics, issues and problems now are global whole nations and cultures and races demand attention. Our imaginations try to stretch, to reach, try to take things on and fail. Imagine a pandemic, global warming, multi-national corporations. Imagine whole regions of the world, whole generations, the west, the east, the middle east. It's like trying to think of long term outcomes with a short attention span. It's Like counting the war dead was it fifty or a hundred thousand when one small death staggers us.

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:057

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


RACHEALGRACE ADAMS : Cradle to the Grave
J.K. DURICK : Local

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