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Garry Smith Poems
The land of hearthstone tales, Where every hill touches an angel. With a little help from Dylan Thomas, of course...
The penquin woke me in the night, Shattering shards of glass, Resounded up the stairs, And, through cheap B&Q veneer.
Cora Bishop's feet ain't cold, Naughty little lie she's gone and told. And, we know they're not really red, Tells little fibs 'bout going to bed.
As possibilities, Of that yet to come, A cause, Still to be won,
Somewhere In The Ether
Somewhere in the ether, Your song I can hear. And, over the miles, Your thoughts transcend.
Fish eye, Tooth and nail, Swimming in circles, Around pallid pale.
Comments about Garry Smith
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Best Poem of Garry Smith
The land of hearthstone tales,
Where every hill touches an angel.
With a little help from Dylan Thomas, of course...