poetryrepairs #204 14.09:100
LAURIE CORZETT : Life's Hell; Heaven is in Our Hands
BILL CARROLL : Penmanship Practice in April
UMA ASOPA : 100poem3
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Life's Hell; Heaven is in Our Hands
People disappoint. In gorgeous masks of delight so charming and sweet. Ever beneath (rude greedy mean) vampiric stealth in the night. Too overplayed for deception; too many bad scenes, self-deceived. I like art. The beautiful mask is itself, when well-wrought portrays the best of us.  Spit the rest, the unjust, over-blessed, tawdry fuss, choking fumes, whingers shaping wounds on their breasts, unless their etchings astound, caress the ideal heart. Beatific love, despite requite, beyond petty acts of life, magical crafted coin: Art's how we weak-voiced people join

poetryrepairs #204 14.09:100

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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LAURIE CORZETT, seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine:Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine: http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com -- Issue #22  "Gifting Gaea" celebrates our Earth

Penmanship Practice in April
I heard their honks like an unoiled wheel squeaking loudly before I saw them written just above the margin of newly green trees a score or so of geese there were in a single distant line like twenty words printed right to left perfect penmanship looped along the straight blue line of roofs too far from open water I listened until they faded into the north erasing winter's bleak manuscript speaking their ghostly chant of autumn in reverse.

from 15 years ago: vMM.09
poetryrepairs #204 14.09:100

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

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Someone asked me, if I have ever been to a beach on moonlit night. Did I listen to the sea acknowledging its retreat - waves falling silent, as their fury would leave? Did I feel them cut through my heels, as they thrashed against the rocks, or the gravel I stood on? Yes I was there, almost, but not on full moon. I never heard it whisper or felt its salt. The sea tempted me, but I came back from every shore feet wet, without going knee deep. Every time I heard its song, incomplete.

from v04.09
poetryrepairs #204 14.09:100

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. -- O.E.D.


LAURIE CORZETT : Life's Hell; Heaven is in Our Hands
BILL CARROLL : Penmanship Practice in April
UMA ASOPA : 100poem3

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