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"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen

Sunday, October 26, 2014

HASTENING DOWN THE END













Clutched between fingers gnarled as tree roots
He grasped strange flowers—half-dead cerulean blue poppies—
Drooped over roughened knuckles sporting faded inklings
Frivolous remnants of tattoos long ago scratched
On skin unreceptive to such...

Muttering dire foretelling, apocalyptic, barely audible
Every other word punctuated with a loud "THIRTEEN"
If one listened closely enough,
he sounded positively literary
As if he might slow to an epilogue
Were his utterances not quite so speedy

5 comments:

  1. Great poem, poppies have such great meaning to them - good and sad.

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  2. The scratched away tattoos got me..like trying to erase a story...and of course the blue flowers....all divine and lingeringly tragic

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  3. If I met someone clutching cerulean blue poppies, I wouldn't hesitate: I would turn and run in the opposite direction!

    Whirling Haiku

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  4. I too wrote about blue poppies! A brilliant take on this week's words.

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