flying flocks travel in flight,
another faulkner puts down
his shovel, and writes, writes
and writes.
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me the muddled spirits,
and write your own words
with your own blood.
flying flocks travel in flight,
sextan turns up with her friend
plath, and they both write, write,
and write with their own blood.
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me these muddled spirits,
and write with your own blood.
Flying flocks travel in flight, and
a poem explodes in this poets mind,
and i write, and write, and write,
and on this white paper, my blood.
I found this powerful and so right. A poem is like part of one's being or blood.
you write with such ardor - that retains a certain staidness, cradling credibility. -~- sjg
David......good heartfelt advice....well-put.......thankyou.... Love, D.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hi David, A lot of emotion and very creative. I find your poems much better David. There is more meaning. Very unique. Excellent write. Take care.