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To Soar With Eagles
I had not written poetry for
A decade, after writing
Poetry non stop for the preceding
Decade… Like an affliction
For non fiction. But then
I took this writing workshop
And once again held the
Poetic plume, dipped it in ink
And watched the ink sink
Into the parchment – Impressed,
And it flowed in expansions
Of heart, entrancements of eye,
Pulsations of soul… And
I read the words aloud to those
Around the table, feeling the
Timbre of my voice, as my lips
Slipped into the spoken word
Like some new thing, I felt the
Need to know, as I could feel
The energy of eyes watching,
Ears listening, as the red
Spectrum of light met the blue,
And the words were somehow
Haunting, like phonographic -
Graphic productions of ghosts
Being vanquished in strange
Incinerators. And the beings
Around the table looked at me
In a totality of electricity.
The leader of the workshop
Invoked Tennyson’s Eagle.
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