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pappa called me from L.A.
one day late July
it was 3A.M. pacific time
it was 4 A.M. when he died

mamma passed one winter day
I was by her side
she kissed my hand
to say good-bye

my mind cannot understand
beyond what it can measure
time has stolen the years
and I count my moments in memory and tears

I want to go home again
past the garden gate
through the side door
and hold someone I loved
once more.

Editing stage: 



A fine poem. I liked it all!

always, Cat

When you fling poo, some of the stink sticks to you!

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author comment

I would very much like to offer biting criticism to the purpose of improving the poem. I would like to "fix" the meter, change the rhyme. Help you to somehow broach the subject more eloquently.

I cannot.
It is beyond my meager skills.
A very powerful poem.

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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emotive, but sincere! I think we all have a similar gate that we'ld like to go through someday!


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