poetryrepairs 15,06:072

SUE LITTLETON : THE SANDS OF TIME
SUE LITTLETON : AUTUMN’S END
C. J. MARECIC : Cursed With Hope

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SUE LITTLETON
THE SANDS OF TIME

The sea of life stretches before me, interminable, ever in movement. Soft lines of white foam paint hieroglyphs at the water´s edge. No longer will I sail those waves, risking all, losing, gaining – knowledgeable sailor, fearless pirate, innocent explorer. My sailing days are done. I sit on the warm sand and with one hand scoop up a handful of silicate crystals and let them slide gently through my fingers. These are the hours, days, weeks, months, years of my existence, each grain a memory, so many grains, sliding, sliding across my palm, returning to the endless dunes that surround me.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:072





SUE LITTLETON
AUTUMN’S END 

The early morning sky is white as skim milk and the leaves of the jacaranda move gently in the small wind, like green feathers of some exotic bird. It is the end of autumn and soon the leaves of many trees will turn a sad brown, drift docilely to the ground: those that keep their green, the rubber trees, the magnolias, the pines, seem arrogant to me, aristocratic snobs who cling to their wealth while others must shiver in bare-limbed poverty. Last night vandals again attacked the bronze statue of the she-wolf giving suck to Romulus and Remus, gifted to the city by Rome many years ago. Previously the intruders broke off fingers of the twins for the sheer pleasure of destroying something beautiful-- perhaps because the only beauty in their lives is found in smoking a cheap pipe of paco. the poor man’s drug in Buenos Aires. In the photograph in this morning’s paper one of the twins lies abandoned on the cobbles, hands still curved to grasp the teat.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:072





C. J. MARECIC
Cursed With Hope

You laugh at this, as if to remind me that any moron would want to live within the embrace of hope. It gives reason to rise in the morning courage to settle into the black of night. Without hope a dream is but a fetus stillborn in the heart. Without hope the heart hardens then clogs the gateway to the soul. Without hope the soul withers into a dime store effigy, the body a painted hide stretched upon a frame of brittle bones. Hope for me turns every egg every sperm into the lisp of a poem a moment irretrievably lost in love a nearly perfect angel a god's limp. Hope for me is the wing upon which I venture forth, fickle dreams clutched to my breast, along a sightless path between the sun and the moon grasping stars the braille of stars the flesh of my perdition as signposts. Hope taunts my heart my soul with audacious thoughts pernicious thoughts of the attainability of unattainable dreams the conquest of an insurmountable dream of love the senseless love of dreams. But let's face it, this can not be done it is really impossible it is merely fey it is illuminating the vast universe with the flame of a solitary candle it is smoke lost in the confusion of a storm cloud it is a drunken ride upon the reflection of a moonbeam it is feathers floating inexplicably earthward drifting randomly upon an infinite sea. Still, I am cursed with hope.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:072







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