I don’t know how late it is
I am writing with a chewed ballpoint
Up against my knees
While fog hangs upon the city
Lassitude draped in her folds
They say poetry is about expression,
Which carries many meanings:
Strong opinion, high emotions,
Bold gestures
We are encouraged to speak,
Speak our minds
Go on, you say,
Go on and do it
I long to create something
In which the face of the
Entire human race develops features
Like negatives in a hypo bath
I want to write about how far
Indifference has mutilated our palsied souls
Whose contagion if the sickness has not
Run its course is still infecting others
Demanding attention
Unable to love and
About hope
Whether it belongs to youth
Or is really an illness of age —
Something the surgeon finds after
A long and deep operation into the dying
Whether it is humankind’s last disease
I don’t know how late it is
I think of the poems I have written
But cannot publish, poems of our lives
Unfolding, faces sweated with desire,
And savage certainty
So well spoken…as always.
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So sweet…as always.
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Vera,
This work is first rate, a thinker’s delight as well as a deep emotional experience.
Our ‘palsied souls’ indeed!
Big hugs
john
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Thank you so much, John. You have no idea how much your approval means to me.
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Deeply beautiful.
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Thank you so much, Nico. Your response is deeply appreciated.
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Alright. Vera. Your words on hope set me crying. Brilliant. ❤️ Raw. Absolutely exposed. Thank You for sharing Your heart in such a manner.
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And thank you for sharing yours, sweet one. ❤
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❤️☀️🌷
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Hi Vera, Your poems are raw and deeply felt. I love every one of them
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Thank you very much, Mary, this means so much to me. I have missed you a great, great deal.
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