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Blog Archive

Thu, 24.09.2009

THE YELLOW BIRD by James W. Thompson.

Mandarin in a silent film he wings past painted women chalked in doorways gesturing with fragile lacquered hands.
Large yellow bird he alights in a foreign land his buttocks fan the perch of a stool
fluttering his eyes rise swallow the eddy of human forms swabbed in denim shod in boots.
His stemmed drink stands clear among tumblers of foaming beer and he sips-with ease of Eliot attending an effusive reading-as the music grinds in 4/4 time.
The stranger steals from the Victorian bed combs a hard hand through his blond dead gazing in sandalwood scented gloom at the soft yellow bird asleep i

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New Poem Each Day

Poetry Corner

Black brother, think your life so sweet That you would live at any price? Does mere existence balance with The weight of your great sacrifice? Or can it be you fear the... TIME TO DIE by Ray Garfield Dandridge.
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