Modigliani Pause

Painting: Modigliani. So, we must laugh before that day may come; before that twilight leaves us little choice when both will mourn our last day in the sun when colder silence muffles all our voice. Yet greet me now; be kind before the fall. Accept our hours together precious few with no resentment for each…

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The Garden

The Garden Imagine all the love our lives enclose ¬†if placed within walled garden’s memory. There gently falls the rain where grows the rose as droplets tremble in the wind and flee. A wondrous world with rain-bowed colors blown ‘neath places in the sun where true things grow. So be our rose whose petals now…

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“There May Be Dragons”

Photo by Jacqueline Casey There may be dragons in that soul-less flight where harpies; ¬†hovering aloft her bed, born of a spell that chills the wicked night and winters in her heart some unknown dread. There may be dragons in the hate-filled gloom: a whistling as the icy wind now drones. As thundering is heard;…

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“She’s Gone”

When he’s here, I’ll not be there. Everyone knows I’m a coward who’ll refuse his foot-in-the-door. I’ll pull the shades turn off the light throw the chain-bolt. I will be sneaky as he is punctual.

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Happy Birthday To Me

Still, happiness is candles flickering…

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“Ballade for a Street Musician”

“Ballade for a Street Musician” So heavenly, from other worlds, notes stray in station of the Metro, Washington. Great music moves along a vast arcade as people hurry on hear Mendelssohn. But Bach is hushed as morning rush has won though Joshua plays with all his heart and soul. A street musician’s image most may…

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The Box Turtle

  The turtle makes his life an aimless choice if once, reset upon a journey dark he’s lost his vision and his inner voice to turn him from his home within his park. He’s wandered from his joyful habitat. He’s lost, and inched, somehow, the wrong, wrong way and home cannot be found from where…

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The Birth of a Hurricane

  “The Birth of a Hurricane” It’s steamy in the southern Keys tonight. Her air is thick. She tastes of salty fog. A quiet’s fallen with no birds in sight. Her ocean swells; she’s pregnant with resolve. Her palms now twist and spin and wave their skirt and fall too quick from fluttered warmth beneath.…

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