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Crone

She is a crone, 
a flowing vapor,
an invisible river--
Too fast? Too slow?
What she is? I don't know.

...but I'm caught in her tow
and must go with the change
perpetually to grow in age
sands through a glass
either gold dust or waste

A tree of possibility
her leaves transform seasonally
to fertilize the hope of summer dreams

A personal providence?
Or a bad joke of chance?
Directed? or drifting?
Does she emanate from living?
Or life from her?

She calls me to decide
if I will ride or hide
...One thing is for sure,
Her...



 
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Posted by on June 19, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Photomask

*

time stopped after faces smiled–
squinting at square time-capsuled windows
books packed, amber remains to portray
slices of cryogenic experience

yellowed paper in brittle plastic sheathes
stare back at me– voices call
to the nowhere places that are not
wishing, wondering, “what if?”
–look for some dimensional door

some resemble me too, horribly so
the mocker looks artificial, waxen
I’ve decided– these are not me at all
so out of phase with the present
yet there is an insane urge to travel back
just to see

baffled between the then and now
a suppressed scream grasps the reality
that most of those mummies smiling back
are now dust and bones
taunting with unresolved memories
reminders of our dying,
frame by frame–

*

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2021 in Poetry

 

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