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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3900 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Pablo seaandbell (Debi Carwell) An angel’s hand paused near his name and a word grew from the light lyre strung with dusk, sparks were something he kept in brilliant records, moonlight and roots and he flew, like the purest light of a storm shadow poet made of somber grace, sublime bird of a thin country you shared heaven with loud tourists for naught, for a sigh even the trees knew your name recognizing in you the things of stars and fields a little while here … a hearth burning like wings on a flickering staircase made of rain, dressed in the sea as humble and grand as winter’s dying cantible finding favor with the sun, with women so your days burned on and even the burning was rapturous but now is the dark. an iron sepulcher of the unborn fills and empties, it’s passengers lulled in the tentacles of this wooden play O artisan dying in candle light, I have only crude words to pin at your door a wreath of silence remembering your poetry like grains of sand forming the shy pearl of dawn |
