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Poetry Magnum Opus

A Day Poolside

Terry A

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He lays out
A balloon punctured in the sun
A slow leak of blood
Carrying downside the pool
A disturbing red

If he would have yelled
The glass ceiling would have shattered
But he said nothing
Dozing off in a slumber filled
With little taunting hands
Not permitted touch.

I complained about the mud the dirt the static
But he was wind and capricious as wind
Blowing where ever the heat was uneven.

That wound worried me
But he ordered lunch
As if dying was no reason
To be hungry.


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The irony is that wind is not capricious, it can just seem that way. Aspects of the surreal often seem strange, when they are a jolt out of usual understanding. less tethered to the usual ways of looking at something. And the way somethings feel, is sometimes not represented by merely how they look. Of course, that what writing poetry is about. When the subconscious is allowed play, well......sometimes it just comes up with poems like this.

Thanks for your comments!  There isn't enough poetry being posted to adhere to the 3 comment/critique suggestion for each poem posted. I'll wait a bit now.


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