As a poet I would be
most interested in learning what you read when you are reading one of my poems.
I know it sounds strange, after all
I wrote it, but often when I read one of my poems it is different in small or large ways from the last time I read it.
I know that each reader in turn
rewrites a poem, its meaning held close, their filters personal, never obvious to the observer.
So I am left to wonder just what
I wrote when I wrote it for you for I am certain it would be revelatory to know what I was thinking when I put pen to paper on that day now quite lost in my past.
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in their foraging in the lawn to peer up at us, strange looking interlopers, but they are used to us by now and return to the task at hand.
We no longer
find them strange though we never quite get used to the curved salmon colored beaks, and we do wonder why the ancient Egyptians held them sacred.
It seems that they
have never forgiven their Egyptian ancestors from affixing their head to a man, god or no god, he couldn’t find a grub if his life depended on it.
birds, Florida, Humor, Memory, Myth, Poem, Travel
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It was a strange room,
that much I recall, with heavy velvet curtains covering what should have been a window, and might once have been, but no longer.
The only light was a bare bulb
in the ceiling, casting a soft amber wash across the time worn oak floor, and once white walls.
There was a chair, nondescript
and now long forgotten and a small metal table, once gray its paint flaking, its surface mottled and uneven.
Still, I sat in that room
for an hour each day, staring at the walls, and looking deeply within, and finding both empty, have never returned there.
Dream, Humanist, Memory, men, mind, Photography, Poem, writing, Zen
bulb, chair, curtains, day, empty, oak, room, staring, strange, table, walls, window
Only in New York will you find a giraffe looking up at taller buildings
and not thinking this the least bit strange. People always look up at
buildings and it is never strange, but people know that giraffes must
be different and their looking up is by its very nature strange. Giraffes
look down at people as well. This is not strange, and people accept this
although they are usually not pleased. People do not like being looked
down upon. Not even by giraffes.
Humanist, language, men, Photography, Prose Poem, Uncategorized
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