PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
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.....
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Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone
- Thread starter SeattleRain
- Start date
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
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wildsweetone
i am what i am
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2002
- Posts
- 6,809
Nursing The Invisible Man
Pat, there's something 'odd' about the 'not if it was...' . I don't know exactly what though... maybe it's to do with the wording just before it. It might be only the word 'not'. Sorry, it's just a feeling I have.
That sounds like she's having a bowel motion...
Pat, there's something 'odd' about the 'not if it was...' . I don't know exactly what though... maybe it's to do with the wording just before it. It might be only the word 'not'. Sorry, it's just a feeling I have.
Last edited:
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
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- Jul 24, 2004
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- 1,624
wildsweetone said:
that's one way to read it.
wildsweetone said:
i've reread it a dozen times, and don't feel anything odd.
it might be because it feels like a double negative, especially if you don't pause at the comma.
thanks, wso.
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
She compares herself
to a broken sparrow
flying headlong ,frantic
into panes of glass
she mistakes for freedom.
She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescuing hand,
that which soothes,
that nourishes.
I've always been Christ the bird watcher,
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests,
pretending to bestow
the gift of flight.
They all leave.
They're suppose to.
Each one extracts their pound of flesh,
in time i'll never recapture,
listening to them sing
or squawk,
while the demon of "wasting time"
prods my brain
incessantly.
It hurts a little to lose yourself
piece by piece
like some relic, wind scattered
to the 4 corners.
A saviour or some lecherous martyr?
Each woman flips your coin.
I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me,
the others have picked me clean.
Still, I try
to rebuild her wings with skeleton hands,
to recite the words
that open the skies,
to call the wind home.
I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window.
It thrashed around
flying into walls and bureaus,
until my father caught it
and let it go,
bleeding and half crazed.
maybe that's where i get it from.
it didn't know about transparent walls
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world.
maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant.
to a broken sparrow
flying headlong ,frantic
into panes of glass
she mistakes for freedom.
She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescuing hand,
that which soothes,
that nourishes.
I've always been Christ the bird watcher,
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests,
pretending to bestow
the gift of flight.
They all leave.
They're suppose to.
Each one extracts their pound of flesh,
in time i'll never recapture,
listening to them sing
or squawk,
while the demon of "wasting time"
prods my brain
incessantly.
It hurts a little to lose yourself
piece by piece
like some relic, wind scattered
to the 4 corners.
A saviour or some lecherous martyr?
Each woman flips your coin.
I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me,
the others have picked me clean.
Still, I try
to rebuild her wings with skeleton hands,
to recite the words
that open the skies,
to call the wind home.
I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window.
It thrashed around
flying into walls and bureaus,
until my father caught it
and let it go,
bleeding and half crazed.
maybe that's where i get it from.
it didn't know about transparent walls
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world.
maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant.
flyguy69
Arch Angel
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2003
- Posts
- 2,661
Wonderful, Pat. I love the blurred contrast between stark, raving lunacy and love. (They are different, right?) The title doesn't work for me, despite the clear references to care and shunning. But I am awful with titles, so I've got nothing to offer.
QUOTE=PatCarrington]Nursing the Invisible Man
The pill she passes is smooth as silk,
thread she adds to his cocoon <-- "add" seems weak
of medication. It bothers her
that she asked to wheel him
in the courtyard only because <-- The word "only" bothers me. Her empathy suggests she really does care; perhaps fear could be worked in, here.
she knew they’d say no. She
isn’t proud that she prefers him
wrapped, at a distance and divided,
that she spends the night
behind glass peeking
like a scared child through a fence
at the dog who has her ball. <-- I love the image of her freedom as a child's toy
He drops his head, drugged drowsy
in the lab rat world she runs, bobs
his shoulders by the open window
to loosen the straps on his wings.
No one else can see him. No one else <-- No one else can see him? Or his wings?
would understand he is listening
to the gossip of the wind. No one else
will ever know that when she dreams
she hears it too, the sibilant call
of the wild woods, and flies
to freedom with him simply because
she can. But here, she knows
what they do to those who follow
hums to forests and make love
in thorns and darkness. They feel
unnourished when it’s private,
when they can’t tell who’s
pressed up against the sycamores,
when they can’t see the acts
and smell the blood. They want it
visible, caged and docile. That’s why <-- "docile" seems wrong, if they want circuses
they gathered him in nets
when he shouted poetry naked
in the park, and rope him in
still. They know he would have
sprinkled himself with gold dust
any time, that he might be able to fly
by now, and cry at their windows
while they slept. How
could they locate peace? How
could they tell love from lunacy
with people like him floating
by their bedrooms at night?
Where would they find
their bread and circuses then? <-- excellent reference to societal decline as well as perversity.
[/QUOTE]
QUOTE=PatCarrington]Nursing the Invisible Man
The pill she passes is smooth as silk,
thread she adds to his cocoon <-- "add" seems weak
of medication. It bothers her
that she asked to wheel him
in the courtyard only because <-- The word "only" bothers me. Her empathy suggests she really does care; perhaps fear could be worked in, here.
she knew they’d say no. She
isn’t proud that she prefers him
wrapped, at a distance and divided,
that she spends the night
behind glass peeking
like a scared child through a fence
at the dog who has her ball. <-- I love the image of her freedom as a child's toy
He drops his head, drugged drowsy
in the lab rat world she runs, bobs
his shoulders by the open window
to loosen the straps on his wings.
No one else can see him. No one else <-- No one else can see him? Or his wings?
would understand he is listening
to the gossip of the wind. No one else
will ever know that when she dreams
she hears it too, the sibilant call
of the wild woods, and flies
to freedom with him simply because
she can. But here, she knows
what they do to those who follow
hums to forests and make love
in thorns and darkness. They feel
unnourished when it’s private,
when they can’t tell who’s
pressed up against the sycamores,
when they can’t see the acts
and smell the blood. They want it
visible, caged and docile. That’s why <-- "docile" seems wrong, if they want circuses
they gathered him in nets
when he shouted poetry naked
in the park, and rope him in
still. They know he would have
sprinkled himself with gold dust
any time, that he might be able to fly
by now, and cry at their windows
while they slept. How
could they locate peace? How
could they tell love from lunacy
with people like him floating
by their bedrooms at night?
Where would they find
their bread and circuses then? <-- excellent reference to societal decline as well as perversity.
[/QUOTE]
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
.....
Last edited:
G
Guest
Guest
Pat and fly - this has been like watching a butterfly open it's wings for the first time. Thanks, both.
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
Tristesse said:
wildsweetone
i am what i am
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2002
- Posts
- 6,809
Tathagata
She compares herself
to a broken sparrow
flying headlong ,frantic
into panes of glass
she mistakes for freedom.(would a broken sparrow fly?)
She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescuing hand,
that which soothes,
that nourishes.(maybe change, 'that' to 'and')
I've always been Christ the bird watcher,(worth capitalising B and W?)
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests,
pretending to bestow
the gift of flight.
They all leave.
They're suppose to.
Each one extracts their pound of flesh,(comma needed here?)
in time i'll never recapture,(I'll)
listening to them sing
or squawk,
while the demon of "wasting time"
prods my brain
incessantly.
It hurts a little to lose yourself
piece by piece
like some relic, wind scattered(wind-scattered)
to the 4 corners.(4 or four? one to nine is usually words)
A saviour or some lecherous martyr?
Each woman flips your coin.(almost cliche?)
I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me,
the others have picked me clean.(what kind of eyes do you have as you are looking at your new bird?)
Still, I try
to rebuild her wings with skeleton hands,(skeleton or skeletal?)
to recite the words
that open the skies,
to call the wind home.(I like this very much)
I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window.
It thrashed around
flying into walls and bureaus,
until my father caught it
and let it go,(change 'and' to 'then' - perhaps)
bleeding and half crazed.
maybe that's where i get it from.(capitalise 'm' and 'i')
it didn't know about transparent walls(capitalise 'i', what is 'it'?)
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world.
maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant.(capitalise 'm'; I'm not sure 'tell' fits in here, is it part of the character of whoever 'I' is?)
She compares herself
to a broken sparrow
flying headlong ,frantic
into panes of glass
she mistakes for freedom.(would a broken sparrow fly?)
She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescuing hand,
that which soothes,
that nourishes.(maybe change, 'that' to 'and')
I've always been Christ the bird watcher,(worth capitalising B and W?)
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests,
pretending to bestow
the gift of flight.
They all leave.
They're suppose to.
Each one extracts their pound of flesh,(comma needed here?)
in time i'll never recapture,(I'll)
listening to them sing
or squawk,
while the demon of "wasting time"
prods my brain
incessantly.
It hurts a little to lose yourself
piece by piece
like some relic, wind scattered(wind-scattered)
to the 4 corners.(4 or four? one to nine is usually words)
A saviour or some lecherous martyr?
Each woman flips your coin.(almost cliche?)
I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me,
the others have picked me clean.(what kind of eyes do you have as you are looking at your new bird?)
Still, I try
to rebuild her wings with skeleton hands,(skeleton or skeletal?)
to recite the words
that open the skies,
to call the wind home.(I like this very much)
I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window.
It thrashed around
flying into walls and bureaus,
until my father caught it
and let it go,(change 'and' to 'then' - perhaps)
bleeding and half crazed.
maybe that's where i get it from.(capitalise 'm' and 'i')
it didn't know about transparent walls(capitalise 'i', what is 'it'?)
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world.
maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant.(capitalise 'm'; I'm not sure 'tell' fits in here, is it part of the character of whoever 'I' is?)
wildsweetone
i am what i am
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2002
- Posts
- 6,809
Pat
Fencing the Invisible Man
The pill in the cup is silk, (feels stark, but needs 'white' mentioned i think, white pill, or better yet, white cup)
thread she spins on his cocoon
of medication. When his head
drops, she longs to wheel him
in the courtyard. She isn’t proud
that she feels safer when he’s
wrapped, at a distance and divided,
that she spends the night
behind glass peeking
like a skittish child through a fence
at the dog who has her ball. (are there too many pronouns?)
Drugged drowsy in the lab rat world (I like this line)
she runs, he bobs his shoulders
by the open window trying to loosen
the straps on his wings. No one else
can see them. No one else
would understand he is answering
the gossip of the wind. No one else
will ever know that when she dreams
she hears it too, the sibilant call
of the wild woods, and flies
to freedom with him because
she can. But here, she witnesses
what they do to those who follow
hums to forests and make love
in thorns and darkness. They feel
unnourished when it’s private,
when they can’t tell who’s
pressed up against the sycamores,
when they can’t see the acts
and smell the blood. They want it
visible, and caged. That’s why
they gathered him in nets
when he shouted poetry naked
in the park, and rope him in (maybe - 'and why they rope him in')
still. They know he would have
sprinkled himself with gold dust
any time, that he might be able to fly
by now, and cry at their windows
while they sleep. How
could they locate peace? How
could they tell love from lunacy
with people like him floating
by their bedrooms at night?
Where would they find
their bread and circuses then?
(can you enhance this work any more by adding in more detail for the senses? colours, scents - usually strong in a medical centre, hot/cold, etc)
Fencing the Invisible Man
The pill in the cup is silk, (feels stark, but needs 'white' mentioned i think, white pill, or better yet, white cup)
thread she spins on his cocoon
of medication. When his head
drops, she longs to wheel him
in the courtyard. She isn’t proud
that she feels safer when he’s
wrapped, at a distance and divided,
that she spends the night
behind glass peeking
like a skittish child through a fence
at the dog who has her ball. (are there too many pronouns?)
Drugged drowsy in the lab rat world (I like this line)
she runs, he bobs his shoulders
by the open window trying to loosen
the straps on his wings. No one else
can see them. No one else
would understand he is answering
the gossip of the wind. No one else
will ever know that when she dreams
she hears it too, the sibilant call
of the wild woods, and flies
to freedom with him because
she can. But here, she witnesses
what they do to those who follow
hums to forests and make love
in thorns and darkness. They feel
unnourished when it’s private,
when they can’t tell who’s
pressed up against the sycamores,
when they can’t see the acts
and smell the blood. They want it
visible, and caged. That’s why
they gathered him in nets
when he shouted poetry naked
in the park, and rope him in (maybe - 'and why they rope him in')
still. They know he would have
sprinkled himself with gold dust
any time, that he might be able to fly
by now, and cry at their windows
while they sleep. How
could they locate peace? How
could they tell love from lunacy
with people like him floating
by their bedrooms at night?
Where would they find
their bread and circuses then?
(can you enhance this work any more by adding in more detail for the senses? colours, scents - usually strong in a medical centre, hot/cold, etc)
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
wildsweetone said:
wso
I usually work through the poems here bit by bit and only add punctuation and capitalization on the final draft
: )
it's a pain in the ass I know but that's how i work
I do thank you for your suggestions though.
I try and eliminate " and" from my poems a lot
when I first started I over used them
now I cut them out where ever I can
"broken" could also mean spiritually or mentally
in which case it could still fly
though, perhaps, it would have no reason to
wildsweetone
i am what i am
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2002
- Posts
- 6,809
Tathagata said:
Does everyone do the punctuation in this thread like you Tath? Sorry I just realised this is the construction thread and not the thin-skinned one. I haven't a clue how this one works. Will check out the first post (presuming the 'rules' are in it
)edited to add: just checked out the first post! I am REALLY sorry guys! Please disregard my posts. Sorry.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,158
It was not his feathered glory
pushing her vague terrified
thighs aside, but great wings
beating still on her shoulders.
The brush of night is concealment,
truth is sticky blood on white down,
linen dripped with wine. Claret
is clarity Divine One taking flight
and Leda lay spread across the rock.
She is sown with seeds of Troy.
Was she satiated, was she
saturated with the promise
of history or a curse of immortality?
pushing her vague terrified
thighs aside, but great wings
beating still on her shoulders.
The brush of night is concealment,
truth is sticky blood on white down,
linen dripped with wine. Claret
is clarity Divine One taking flight
and Leda lay spread across the rock.
She is sown with seeds of Troy.
Was she satiated, was she
saturated with the promise
of history or a curse of immortality?
darkmaas
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2002
- Posts
- 1,000
Angeline wrote:
I read it once and liked it.
I read it twice and liked it more.
Third time even more... but you're probably not surprised.
However at the risk of picking nits, the last line is not growing on me.
I think the problem is that the rest of the poem is powerfully basic, emotional imagery, then at the final breath, you smack us with a rather foppish intellectual issue. Maybe its just me, but surely there are bigger things on her mind.
On a petty note, your verb tense shifts in the last line of the second stanza.
However it's a good day when the first poem of the day is so gorgeous. Thanks.
I read it once and liked it.
I read it twice and liked it more.
Third time even more... but you're probably not surprised.
However at the risk of picking nits, the last line is not growing on me.
I think the problem is that the rest of the poem is powerfully basic, emotional imagery, then at the final breath, you smack us with a rather foppish intellectual issue. Maybe its just me, but surely there are bigger things on her mind.
On a petty note, your verb tense shifts in the last line of the second stanza.
However it's a good day when the first poem of the day is so gorgeous. Thanks.
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,158
darkmaas said:
Thank you for your comments. I can't argue with you here and at yahoo at the same time, but I don't think it's foppish though you may have a point about the last line. How would you end it?
I'll fix the verb tense later, dear. Ok?
Do you think it's ripping off Yeats too much?
tungtied2u
Not necessary
- Joined
- Apr 7, 2004
- Posts
- 2,704
The Wait
He sits slouched
on the bus bench
back bowed,
head bowed.
Elbows upon knees
for support as the pylons
carrying the concrete highway
above his head, gray
as his hair, gray
as the horizon
which stretches interminably
before him, the wait
the weight immense,
at times seems unbearable
waiting for this ride
to his final destination
________________________________
Comments, suggestions....please?
He sits slouched
on the bus bench
back bowed,
head bowed.
Elbows upon knees
for support as the pylons
carrying the concrete highway
above his head, gray
as his hair, gray
as the horizon
which stretches interminably
before him, the wait
the weight immense,
at times seems unbearable
waiting for this ride
to his final destination
________________________________
Comments, suggestions....please?
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
What's with all the death?
they ask,
Ghosts and corpses and mausoleums.
You depressed,
unhappy?
Do you want to talk?
You can talk to me.
As a child ,when the fog came,
my world was
a horror set from Universal.
Grey and black and white.
A stranded stranger
wandering among trees and across football fields
houses on hills
became vaulted castles of doom
I tell them:
In old paintings there was always
something,
off in a corner
or under a table,
that represented death,
because
it is always there.
That's how I see things,
that's all.
They look at me moon faced,
blank,
as if I had just handed them a dead pigeon.
You see?
I can't talk to you
and now I've ruined paintings for you too.
Some days I just don't feel like dancing.
Some days I'm just in a fog.
they ask,
Ghosts and corpses and mausoleums.
You depressed,
unhappy?
Do you want to talk?
You can talk to me.
As a child ,when the fog came,
my world was
a horror set from Universal.
Grey and black and white.
A stranded stranger
wandering among trees and across football fields
houses on hills
became vaulted castles of doom
I tell them:
In old paintings there was always
something,
off in a corner
or under a table,
that represented death,
because
it is always there.
That's how I see things,
that's all.
They look at me moon faced,
blank,
as if I had just handed them a dead pigeon.
You see?
I can't talk to you
and now I've ruined paintings for you too.
Some days I just don't feel like dancing.
Some days I'm just in a fog.
Last edited:
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
love nullifies questions and warms dead bones
it answers lone echoes in the night and wonders aloud over exotic teas
love wraps salient bandages over scarred minds
smiles through the onslaught
it bleeds forgiveness over bruised assailants
and lies unperturbed among thorns and razor tongues
love bows it's head in hallowed winter
and dances unabashed in ardent spring
it transforms a halting phrase
into a symphony
an indiscernible gesture
into a petition for comfort
It reads joy and pain with the same
practiced eye
and embraces both
as wayward children
love carves like water and embraces like fog,
it turns the pages of life
gently
lest it wake the sleeping
patient as stones,arranged
in rows
love knows
love waits
it answers lone echoes in the night and wonders aloud over exotic teas
love wraps salient bandages over scarred minds
smiles through the onslaught
it bleeds forgiveness over bruised assailants
and lies unperturbed among thorns and razor tongues
love bows it's head in hallowed winter
and dances unabashed in ardent spring
it transforms a halting phrase
into a symphony
an indiscernible gesture
into a petition for comfort
It reads joy and pain with the same
practiced eye
and embraces both
as wayward children
love carves like water and embraces like fog,
it turns the pages of life
gently
lest it wake the sleeping
patient as stones,arranged
in rows
love knows
love waits
Last edited:
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
.....
Last edited:
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
She compares herself
to a broken sparrow
perched face first,longing
against panes of glass
she mistakes for freedom.
She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescuing hand,
that which soothes,
that nourishes.
I've always been Christ the bird watcher,
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests,
pretending to bestow
the gift of flight.
They all leave.
They're suppose to.
Each one extracts their pound of flesh,
in time i'll never recapture,
listening to them sing
or squawk,
while the demon of "wasting time"
prods my brain
incessantly.
It hurts a little to lose yourself
piece by piece
like some relic, wind scattered
to the 4 corners.
A saviour or some lecherous martyr?
Each woman calls the tune
I can do nothing but dance
I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me,
albaster bones pretending to be bound
by flesh.
Still, I try
to rebuild her wings with skeleton hands,
to recite the words
that open the skies,
to call the wind home.
when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window.
It thrashed around
flying into walls and bureaus,
until my father caught it
and let it go,
bleeding and half crazed.
maybe that's where i get it from.
it didn't know about transparent walls
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world.
maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant.
to a broken sparrow
perched face first,longing
against panes of glass
she mistakes for freedom.
She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescuing hand,
that which soothes,
that nourishes.
I've always been Christ the bird watcher,
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests,
pretending to bestow
the gift of flight.
They all leave.
They're suppose to.
Each one extracts their pound of flesh,
in time i'll never recapture,
listening to them sing
or squawk,
while the demon of "wasting time"
prods my brain
incessantly.
It hurts a little to lose yourself
piece by piece
like some relic, wind scattered
to the 4 corners.
A saviour or some lecherous martyr?
Each woman calls the tune
I can do nothing but dance
I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me,
albaster bones pretending to be bound
by flesh.
Still, I try
to rebuild her wings with skeleton hands,
to recite the words
that open the skies,
to call the wind home.
when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window.
It thrashed around
flying into walls and bureaus,
until my father caught it
and let it go,
bleeding and half crazed.
maybe that's where i get it from.
it didn't know about transparent walls
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world.
maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant.
RhymeFairy
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- May 24, 2005
- Posts
- 8,719
True Love
Take me on a ride. Show me what
true love can be. Leave nothing out.
I wanna see it all. Feel it. Taste it.
Hot sensations of lovers embrace.
Slowly dancing in an out.
Whispered words of love.
Taking me on a ride to the land of dreams.
Control has no place here. Sharing and caring.
Respect shows its face. Hidden time in the fabric of life.
Do not give up my friend. There is love out there.
There is friendship and kindness. Take your time,
inhale life. Forget misery and pain. Love is on it's way.
~~~~~~~~~~
saw a poem and got inspired...
needs some work me thinks...
Take me on a ride. Show me what
true love can be. Leave nothing out.
I wanna see it all. Feel it. Taste it.
Hot sensations of lovers embrace.
Slowly dancing in an out.
Whispered words of love.
Taking me on a ride to the land of dreams.
Control has no place here. Sharing and caring.
Respect shows its face. Hidden time in the fabric of life.
Do not give up my friend. There is love out there.
There is friendship and kindness. Take your time,
inhale life. Forget misery and pain. Love is on it's way.
~~~~~~~~~~
saw a poem and got inspired...
needs some work me thinks...
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
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Last edited:
flyguy69
Arch Angel
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2003
- Posts
- 2,661
Hero
I'd leap into the spillway and throw the child
to safety, give my life to the thundering water
so this little one can live!
.............................the hero in each of us cries.
No doubt. But when is the choice so clear?
What if we're both
sucked into the turbine? What if
a late-thrown switch renders my jump
a joke?
I'd take three good months without chemo
if promised there's only four with it.
Who makes that promise?
The hero tests a bullet
with his thumbnail before biting.
I'd leap into the spillway and throw the child
to safety, give my life to the thundering water
so this little one can live!
.............................the hero in each of us cries.
No doubt. But when is the choice so clear?
What if we're both
sucked into the turbine? What if
a late-thrown switch renders my jump
a joke?
I'd take three good months without chemo
if promised there's only four with it.
Who makes that promise?
The hero tests a bullet
with his thumbnail before biting.
Last edited:
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