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down where winter charms
have grown fond of dusk honeys
the silver warmth draws
coy smiles
heavens wings are dusted
with the rising stars
and lonely looks
from forest stand
so quiet and nocturnal
raise hairs on slender arms
and red rose mouths
as warm as falling stars

Editing stage: 


water running cupped in curbs
can you smell the smell
the city vitrous and well
its rivers neath my feet
and lamps that shed their
stare the bitter glare
of days discarded end
and paper cups and
jagged fronds
the smiling little ponds
in pothole moons
that stay

the exhaust and sizzling
chestnuts gasoline
and the drizzle of musk
colognes and perfumes
and alleyways like
dank canyons

author comment

Why did you post your second poem (which I must say I did not like as much as the first) in the comment section and not alone in the Stream? I'm dying to know.
As to the first poem, I loved it and I hate free verse. It is a very simple "snapshot" of the moment. My only problem with it is in the last few lines. The way the sentence is constructed you are essentially saying that the hairs raised on "red rose mouths". It is a somewhat unfortunate use of a passive voice that is likely repaired easily if you're of a mind.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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not all fare shall fare well
like commuting some days are grueling
and others delightful

my second "poem" is just my response
to my own work so much as its a shadow
echoed to the meaning and mood of
the first
I could headline an explanation in the future

I love free verse
for the simplicity it offers
but I do not hate ryhming poetry at all

thank you for the comments

author comment

Fish and chips, a paper bag dishevelled, levelled, torn;
a dress is born, Cinderella's dress, a grandmother's gift,
worn, dirtied, shoddy, cast aside on Edinburgh's streets.

These flowers of rubbish sound their own poetry
seen by the eyes of one who passes, still,
no prejudice, no criticism, open to the dreams of things
that lie it seems outcast, forbidden.

Dreaded germs, these delicate embroideries
of road and field, weathered,
hung on reeds made into something else.

Awaking thoughts of stories long ago,
until the snow swallows all in pure stark white
and all is lost, their sense of place we now forgo.

Love Ann of mooseland.

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

I love the random
the errant
like poetry
and I love winter streets
with its new selections
of things to examine
lost dropped windscattered
and forgotten
treasures of visual cues
offered in their purity

author comment

This reminds me much of the Orgami poems, that I miss. The second poem is Orgami musk.

Wes, I ask you, whether or not there where the hairs are raised? Does it matter to how your heart interprets this? The mind will always fall into confusion and fail in its quest to let poetry do its magic.


Im so glad you liked this one
Yes I agree it has much the old Orgami feel
to it Thank You

author comment

esker was a tad more refined
like brown sugar to white
refined like poison
albino thoughts
no pigmentation
of the past
vanilla negatives
to shoot through
like a black sun

LIke my great Love

author comment
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