THE BALM OF GILEAD
In tune
with the darkness
in rhyme with the light
the salve to calm
the savage beast
his email to me
read
this is not the balm
of Gilead baby
your poems
don't cut the mustard.
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CICADAS
Now I see
a cicada's shell
I hope he lived well
made up for all that time
in the underground cell
now light as a feather
lays on the ground
dry as an old butterfly
between the pages
of a dusty book.
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SELFISH
Wild eyed
with excitement
my faux paux
could have
deadly repercussions
but my tears
would fall
only for me.
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ving@optusnet.com.au
Aussie poet,born in Italy.
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