{ less papers, more demos }
{random poetry #53}
“Are you anybody else’s missing piece?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, maybe you want to be your own piece?”
“I can be someone’s and still my own.”
from The Missing Piece
•.•❤•.••.•❤•.••.•❤•.••.•❤•.••.•❤•.•
“Underneath my outside face
There’s a face that none can see.
A little less smiley,
A little less sure,
But a whole more like me.”
“There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.”
from Every Thing on It
•.•❤•.••.•❤•.••.•❤•.••.•❤•.•
“Poor, poor fool why can’t you see
She can love others and still love thee.”
from Where the Sidewalk Ends
•.•❤•.••.•❤•.••.•❤•.•
“The baby bat
Screamed out in fright,
‘Turn on the dark,
I’m afraid of the light.”
•.•❤•.••.•❤•.•
“How many slams in an old screen door?
Depends how loud you shut it.
How many slices in a bread?
Depends how thin you cut it.
How much good inside a day?
Depends how good you live ‘em.
How much love inside a friend?
Depends how much you give ‘em.”
•.•❤•.•
“And all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet”
Silverstein, S. (1932-1999)
{random poetry #52}
[ Meditatio ]
when i carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
i am compelled to conclude
that man is the superior animal.
when i consider the curious habits of man
i confess, my friend, i am puzzled.
Pound, E. (1885-1972)
dénombrement
"france: ten
france: twenty
france: thirty
france: forty
france: fifty
france: sixty
france:
france:
france: sixty ten
world: france what are you doing?
france: four twenties
world: france stop it
france: four twenties ten
world: france that doesn't even make any sense
france:
france:
france:
world:
france:
world:
france: hundred."
{random poetry #51}
[ for a mouthy woman ]
god and the devil still are wrangling
which should have her, which repel;
god wants no discord in his heaven;
satan has enough in hell.
Cullen, C. (1903-1946)
{random poetry #50}
[ it’s Ours ]
there is always that space there
just before they get to us.
That
gentle pure
space
it’s worth
centuries of
existence
say
just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch
that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won’t
get it all
ever.
Bukowski, C., from You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense
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