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rouge tide

awash
crescent held stall
another faucet bead
before the fall

the damp sink basin
the echo mouth
waiting

this gleam like oil
on old tile
on old flooring

the television whispers
its chorus
and the pen shines
its barrel smooth
no words

and the telephone
says nothing

Editing stage: 

Comments

This is poetry. I am fascinated by it,

The bead of water
the mouth echo
TV chorus
shining barrel of the pen
no words.

So much to say and now words.

Love to you from little Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

like a movie set
low lighting
retro and old
and yet still beautiful
haunted yes
but comfortable

my land oh lair
tomb like in its
dark enclosure

just tid bits the descripts

travel light
forty watts of
light

thank you ann

author comment

I read about everything you write, but seldom feel well enough versed in free form to comment on most of your stuff. I can't let this one pass without saying you caught the isolation of writer's block in a great compact write........scribbler

I never looked at it as such
but incredible and true
My life at the moment was blocked
frozen

author comment

As I read it the second time, here, I felt the taste of oil dripping into me, oil from motors not exactly palatable on the floor; as Stan says its well expressed if it was writers block, the gleam, shine of the barrel of the pen like a shot through the silence while the waited for phone call never comes.

Love again Ann

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

pretty as a vase of flowers
aging an ornament of
ego the phone is sometimes
an instrument of mans invention
for greatness also

author comment
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