Stories tagged “poet”
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listen to the poet
The stairs going down were narrow and steep, she held on to the brass banister, like a child holding the hand of a parent in a crowd. Slowly moving one step at a time, squinting into light she wouldn’t even describe as dim. She thought to herself,
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Where Poets Come From (part one)
Poets are more than conceived. They are transformed to meet the eye of life. What do I mean by this? A poet has unparalleled depth and passion blazing inside of them throughout time, and they have the remarkable ability to convert that into words. The ...
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Where Poets Come From (part two)
So to conclude this matter, poets come from the deer prancing through the meadow, or the flower blooming in the field. Though many flowers may be blooming with it, there is no telling which of them will be picked. Poets can come from the sky, or even f...
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The Closet Poet, Commissioned
“I was more reckless then, see. My days were saturated with cigarette smoke and my girlfriends’ perfume.” Trisha Macintosh, therapist extraordinaire, leaned back against her seat, smiling wryly as she tapped her lip with a pen. “...
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I, Who Never Arrived (poetic inspiration)
Three steps ahead is how I’ve lived. The one you lost and never found Combing the ground, the skies, for a trace of Me, the one you have been Missing all along. I dance on the edge of dreams: A flicker of what just might have been beauty, Just ou...
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A Man I Talked To
I talked to a man He gave me advice He told me to see where I stand I was more than confused I talked to this man again He tried to be nice He told me he needed to see where he stands He seemed only slightly amused I saw this man today I approached him...
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Federico Garcia Lorca
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federico_Garc%C3%ADa_Lorca Dusk in New York hasn’t three pillars of ecstasy nor the benign grace of white doves basking in the perfume of ponds. Dusk in New York gloams off tremendous window panes soft chic ends edge shar...
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Donald Hall
Like a wheelless car sliding through midnight’s icy grog house, where tap water and rum mix, dripping through the ghostly floor boards— where minuscule masses of grey snowflakes drift and the heartbeat of clocks halt like dust settling in...
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The Aloof Poet
He couldn’t help it, the sing-song way thoughts formed in his head. Never an easy yes or no, but a long nonsensical twisted braid of words that usually left someone with a painful throbbing headache that rhymed. He saw letters, and the words they...