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Poetry Magnum Opus

as blood...


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as blood from my torn fingernail

is lost among the dervish snow

I stagger from a wagging saw

to choke the mulcher's diesel wail,

and all my painful curses now

are heaped upon the stricken tree

that lies dismembered at my feet,

till like a salve I think of how

I climbed its boughs, hid in its leaves

and courted on a heart-shaped swing

my gentle lover in the spring,

no thought of rot or of disease

nor small brown faggots, that perhaps

will soak up mud on play-ground tracks

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David W. Parsley

Benjamin, this poem touches a very sentimental strain in me. A nice fourteen-line poem with inventive rhyme scheme in tetrameter. But I'm afraid you sent me on a guilt trip. A good one.


- Dave

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Frank E Gibbard

Wistful piece of fond rememberences, well crafted with some delightful wording. I have to point out the climbed it's boughs, hid in it's leaves, should be its. Frank

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